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A Winged Victory

( UONAThiiBVTHi; -^*

^ HkW YOfiK CLXY

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/«•/

R. M. LOVETT

^^^'

400005

NEW YORK
DUFyiELD & COMPANY

r»

THE NEW YORK

PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX AND

TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

R 1927 L

CopTBieHT, 1907, BT
DUFFIELD & COMPANY

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Publithed March^ 1907

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PART I

> '• . V**

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THE NEW YORK

PUBLIC LIBRARY

3019654

AST«n, LENOX AND
TIL»EN FOUNDATIONS

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MERCA.MT1LE LIBRARY,

NEW YORK.

A WINGED VICTORY

CHAPTER I

IT was a long road without a turning; on the
one side, the lake, its leaden surface ruffled
by fretful whitecaps; on the other, miles of
barbed wire fence guarding acres of dusty
brown stubble field. There was no escape from
it, as the fugitives knew well, — no concealment
except the clouds of dust raised by the sullen No-
vember wind against which they were struggling.
They were three, two girls and a boy. The for-
mer were well-grown lassies of nine and eleven ;
the boy, dragged along between them, was a
little fellow, hardly five. The lad's trousers
gaped in large, triangular rents; the girls'
dresses were torn, and the smaller of the two
held a little bleeding hand to her lips. They had
had one trial of the barbed wire. The girls
raced fiercely on, silent, except for their heavy
panting, but the boy sobbed pitifully. Behind
them came, ever nearer, the pounding of hob-
nailed boots, — how near they could not tell until
they heard the crack of a whip that threatened
at the next step to fall upon their shoulders.
Then the older girl, with a scream as if she felt
the cut, shook herself free from the others, and
darted ahead.

A WINGED yiCTORY

"Linda, Linda," cried her sister, "how can
you be so mean ! "

Linda looked over her shoulder. " Come on,
Dora. He won^t hurt Peter," she urged, breath-
lessly, " and he can't catch u%.^^

Dora gave a terror-stricken glance back at
the big farmer.

" He won't hurt you, Peter," she said. " Sis-
ter'll wait for you down the road. Don't be
afraid. Bun into the bushes by the lake, and
maybe he won't stop for you."

She dropped the boy's hand and sped for-
ward.

Linda did not look back again. Already she
was but a bright speck of blue dress and yellow
hair in the dust cloud. A few drops of rain fell,
and Dora, as she felt them on her hot face,
mended her speed. But Peter's sobs rose to a
shrill cry. She looked back. Too confused and
frightened to heed her commands, he was stum-
bling along in the road, and as she looked he fell
flat on his face in the dust. With a sob she
stopped, and shook her little bloody fist at
Linda's back.

"Oh, it's mean of you to leave Peter," she
groaned.

Then, crying with fear and anger, she turned
back, picked up the screaming child, and, once
more holding his hand, she tried to urge him
forward. But Peter had been literally run off
his legs.

"Oh, Peter, Peter, why aren't you bigger,
big enough to fight him," she wailed^ as she

A WINGED yiCTORY

picked him up a second time. " Don't cry, dear.
Sister'U take care of you. He can't kill us."

Emil Messer looked as if he might do just that
as he came upon them. He was a figure to appal
stouter hearts than theirs, with his white hair
and his red, furious face. The Glenn family
were the objects of his particular hatred. His
slow German wrath had been feeding for a year
on the recollection of unpaid-for milk and eggs,
consumed at the Glenn villa, of depredations on
his fruit and melons, of his frightened horses
crowded into the ditch when John Glenn's team
of thoroughbreds passed him on the highway.

" I haf you now catched, damn Teufelskinder,"
he panted. " After so many time that you run
away. But this time, nicht. You take my milk.
What? Und pay me nothings. You take my
pears und peaches. Und now you steal my
honig. What? You shall have this to pay."

He flourished his long whip over his head and
brought it down upon their backs. Dora caught
the boy in her arms to shield him from a second
blow.

"You're a coward, Emil Messer, to strike
Peter," she cried. " He didn't take your honey.
Can't you see he's only a baby? "

The farmer seized her by the long braid which
hung down her back.

" Come you here," he snarled. And again his
thong curled about her thin legs, from which
her stockings, ungartered in her flight, had
slipped. The child did not blench, and her face,
as she turned it toward Messer, was full of anger

A WINGED VICTORY

and scorn. The fire in her dark eyes dried her
tears; her thin, sharply-cut nostrils and lips
quivered with pain and defiance.

"You don't dare to kill me, Emil Messer/^
she cried, between her set teeth. " And I don't
care what else you do to me.''

The word kill shook Messer's determination,
and his grasp relaxed. With a quick wrench
Dora tore herself free, and sprang to Peter.

" Don't cry so, Peter. Don't. Don't. Sister's
all right. He didn't hurt a bit. Come, dear,
come home. Sister'll have to carry you if you're
too tired. She'll have to get you home before
it rains."

The storm was coming on. The wind raised
the dust in angry little whirls, and covered the
lake with white-caps. The big drops fell more
thickly. Emil Messer stood in the road, still
scolding and threatening, but he had done his
worst. Dora had no more fear of him. As Peter
at last stopped crying she raised her head, her
eyes flashing, her cheeks flaming.

"Nasty, stinking old Dutchman," she hissed.

The rain came always more rapidly, and it was
growing dark. Dora tried flrst a trot, then a
fast walk, Peter running at her side to keep up,
whimpering as fatigue and wet gained on him.
But their pace slackened when Peter's shoes
became caked with mud, until at last as they
turned into the long driveway, Dora gathered
the boy into her arms, and thus laden staggered
on to the steps that led to the veranda. The
house, a long, low, bungalow affair, stood quite

A WINGED yiCTORY

detached, unrelievea by trees, gaunt and bare
in the dusk. The front rooms were all dark, but
the kitchen windows shone with steady light,
and between the back porch and the stables two
or three lanterns moved uncertainly back and
forth.

" Papa's coming home, I guess, Peter,'' gasped
Dora, as she set the boy down. " He'll be mad
that the house isn't lighted and we're so late.
We'd better go round by the back door. We're
too wet to go in there, but before we go in I'm
going to wash your face."

She seized the edge of her wet calico skirt and
rubbed the melancholy visage that Peter showed
under the dripping rim of his straw hat.

" Now you look all right, but be sure you don't
say a word about where we've been, or that
Dutchy Messer whipped me. Linda won't let
you go again if you do. Not to Maggie, — only
to papa if he asks you — but he won't."

In the kitchen they found Linda solacing her-
self with a slice of bread and molasses. She
had got home before the worst of the rain. Sit-
ting there in front of the stove, her feet on the
fender, dry, warm, feeding, she had an insolent
air of comfort that was more than Dora, — ^wet,
tired, beaten Dora, — could endure.

"What d'he do to you. Dodo?" inquired
Linda, calmly.

"Nothing," said Dora, shortly.

" Oh, come off, foolish. I know. He smacked
your legs. I c'n see the marks. Didn't he,
Peter? "

A WINGED VICTORY

*^ Peter ain't never goin' to tell."

*^ Oh yes, you are, Peter. Did Dodo cry? "

"No," said Peter, triumphantly. "Dodo
didn't ky. Dodo said ^ Nasty, stinking Dutch-
man ' to him, but she didn't ky."

"Hush, Peter," said Dora. "Don't talk to
her. She's a coward, to run away and leave
you."

" You're a fool, Dode," returned Linda, plac-
idly. " He couldn't whip Peter, and you might
have got oflf just like me."

"And leave poor little Peter to be scared to
death? " demanded Dora. " I wouldn't be you
for anything, Linda."

"What'd you bring Peter for, anyway?" in-
quired Linda, still calm. " I told you he'd be
in the way."

" Well, Linda Glenn, I guess if you were Peter
you'd want some fun once in a while. I won't
have that child grow up a stupid, like the Dutch
children round here. He's old enough now to go
about with us."

" H'm," said Linda. " You talk as if he was
your baby."

"He is my baby. Mamma gave him to me.
He's mine more'n he's anybody's, aren't you,
Peter?" cried Dora, kissing him.

"Oh, ho! Come here Peter 'nd get a bit o'
bread 'nd 'lasses. See how easy he is," she con-
tinued, as Peter squirmed in Dora's arms and
cast wishful glances toward the food.

Dora opened her arms to let Peter escape, and
remained sitting on the floor, embracing her

A WINGED VICTORY

poor, aching legs, and resting her chin on her
knees.

" I guess we'll all grow up like the Dutch
children," went on Linda, licking her lips. " I
wish we were back in N' York. My ! what pretty
clothes I had, 'nd curls 'stead of this braid. And
mamma used to take us to see people in a car-
riage.''

These glories were vaguer by two years in
Dora's mind. She knit her brow and compressed
her lips in an eflfort to remember, but she gave
it up.

" I wish Maggie'd get supper," she murmured.

" I guess you c'n wish then, 'cause she ain't
going to. Papa's coming to-night with some very
important men, 'nd Maggie's got to hustle for
them."

At this declaration Peter began once more to
despair audibly. Dora stood up with wrath in
her eyes.

"Well, I guess this no supper business has
got to stop. Where is Maggie, anyway? She's
got to give us some supper. I won't have Peter
starved."

She went to the door and peered out into the
darkness and rain. One of the lanterns was
approaching the house.

" There's Maggie now," said Dora. " You ask
her for supper, Linda. You're the oldest"

A moment later a strapping Irish woman
swung in, her arms full of dripping bundles,
her head-gear in a state of irrecognisable col-

A WINGED VICTORY

lapse from the rain, and her goo4 nature like-
wise fallen in ruin. She bent her fierce blue
eyes under her scowling, bushy brows on the
three.

"What will ye be afther doing in me clane
kitchen,'^ she snorted, " and masther coming by
the nixt train, and the Howly Mother knows how
many more? Be off wid ye to bed."

" We want our supper, Maggie," said Dora.

" Ye can go to the bread-box, I suppose? "

" We can't eat dry bread, Maggie," pleaded the
girl. " Leastways Peter won't. And he's so cold
and tired and wet. He must have something
warm to eat and drink. Be good, Maggie, and let
us have some tea and a little bacon."

" Peter want bacon," echoed the boy.

" Why weren't ye home, then, at tay time? "
retorted Maggie, as she undid a parcel and held
up a pair of broilers to the light with the gaze
of a connoisseur. " Miss Linda had her supper
before I wint to the village."

"Linda!" shrieked Dora, turning on her.
" What did she give you, Linda? "

"Eggs on toast," replied Linda, tranquilly,
" 'nd coffee, 'nd bread 'nd 'lasses."

"Oh, Linda, why didn't you save some for
Peter? — some of the eggs, I mean."

" There wasn't but three," said Linda, a little
ashamed.

"That was one apiece. You know it was,
Linda, and you ate them all. That was horrid
of you. After you left Peter, and I had to bring

A WINGED VICTORY

him home all alone. That was what made ns
late. Maggie, you shall give us some supper.
We're awful hungry. You must/^

Maggie turned from disembowelling her broil-
ers to make a charge, the knife in her gory hand,
at the little protestant, and Dora fled in terror.

" Must, is it ! " she shouted. " Come, out of
here, all ye brats. I'll have no more of ye
to-night. Wid all the worruk of the house on
me back, and supper ordered be telephone for
six, and me havin' to go to the village in the
rain, and fetch Hinry, him bein' dhrunk, and
'most hamiss the horses mesilf, and cook, and
get the rooms ready, and wait on table and pour
the wine, — ^and the ice-house empty, too." Her
utterance, which had fallen into a melancholy
chant, became vociferous again. "'Tis too
much," she bawled. " And I'll not have a pack o'
children under me feet this night. Be oflf, ye
black divil," to Dora, whose head reappeared at
the door.

" I'm going to the bread-box, Maggie," said
Dora, breathlessly. "Stop. You sha'n't wave
that knife at me. I'm not afraid. You don't
dare to kill me. I will have some bread for my
supper at Peter's. Come, Peter. Here are bis-
cuit, and I'll tell you a story when we're in bed."

The children stole up stairs, Linda ahead with
the candle, Dora clutching Peter with one hand
and the biscuits, left over from breakfast, in the
other.

" Peter likes biscuits," she kept saying, " and
sister'U tell him a story for every one he eats.

A WINGED VICTORY

P'raps he'll eat six. Then she'll tell him six —
oh, Linda, where's the light? "

" I couldn't help it," said Linda, from some-
where up in the darkness. " I didn't know the
window in the hall was open. Come and help
me shut it. It's raining in."

Dora left Peter sitting on the top stair, and
the two girls bent their strength to the task of
moving the swollen sash.

"It's no use," said Linda, at last "We're
only getting wet, and we haven't stirred it a bit."

"But we must get a light," sighed Dora, as
she groped her way back to Peter. "We can't
get him to bed without one."

"Well, p'raps you want to go down there
again; I don't."

"Oh, please, Linda," besought Dora. "She
doesn't get so mad at you. We can't find any-
thing in the dark. And Peter's hair is all wet.
The water went right through his straw hat.
If we don't find a brush to-night it'll be a nasty
mess in the morning, and if Maggie takes a no-
tion to curl it she'll 'most kill him."

" Hark at her," was Linda's only response.

Both children listened a moment to the sounds
that came up in fierce clangour from the kitchen,
where Maggie was now in full action.

" She's a holy terror, Dode," ejaculated Linda,
solemnly.

Nothing more was said about the light. Dora
undressed Peter^ and in lieu of his nightgown,
which could not be found, she wrapped him in a
shawl, and dried and combed his hair as well as

A WINGED VICTORY

she was able with her fingers. Then, with Peter in
his crib eating his bread, she undressed herself,
and climbed into the large bed beside her sister.
She was desperately cold after her last wetting
at the window. It would be good to creep close
to Linda, who was already dozing snugly; to
lie against her warm back; and, oh, if Linda
would only turn over and take her little sister
in her arms, and kiss her! But Dora banished
this dream. A cold little foot, that she de-
spatched as an emissary, was repulsed with en-
ergy, and she resigned herself to the further
edge of the bed, whence she could reach a hand
between the bars of Peter's crib. Dora loved
Linda even when she condemned her, and she
often wondered why Linda did not love her in
turn.

" Peter wants six stories," came the baby voice
from the crib.

" How many biscuits have you eaten, Peter?
Only one? Oh, Peter. You must try to eat
another. Sister's eating, too."

And while she encouraged him by munching
audibly, she launched sleepily into a dimly re-
membered, much-patched version of Bumpelstilt-
skin. Midway in her tale she heard the carriage
drive up, and voices on the verandah, under her
window. Her father and his friends had ar-
rived. There was a light in the hall now, and
from below came a tantalising odour of broiled
chicken. She put her bread down on the floor,
and tried to get the rest of her supper through
her active little nose. There was a sound of

A WINGED VICTORY

cheerful talk from the dining-room, and hearty
laughter, good to hear. They had jolly, kind
voices, these friends of her father, and kind faces,
she remembered, so different from the people
that she saw day by day. One of them, Jack
Hudson, was her god-papa. She fancied that
she could make out his voice among the rest.
She wondered what they were talking about.
Perhaps they were telling stories, better stories
than the half-forgotten, threadbare tales that
she had t(^ patch up for Peter. She wanted to
hear their stories, and to see their faces. The
echo of pleasure in their voices was as teasing
to her ears as the savour of it to her nostrils.
She had continued her story in mechanical fash-
ion, but now she dropped it. To avert Peter's
protest and to console her own loneliness, she
whispered :

" Peter want to come into sister's bed? "

There was no answer, but raucous, congested
breathing. She thrust her hand in at the bars
of the crib. The touch of his hot face brought
her out of her drowsiness. She knew the feeling.
Peter had had the croup once before.

" Why, Peter," she cried, " you're burning up."

The baby moaned and turned.

" Peter, dear, wake up. Sister should have
dried your hair. Oh, whatever shall I do? "

To waken Linda was useless. To get to Mag-
gie she would have to traverse the dining-room,
whence the voices and the laughter and now the
clink of glasses came to her ears. She jumped
up in sudden anger. They should not be merry

A WINGED VICTORY

while Peter lay there choking. They must help
her.

Her clothes lay in a damp heap on the floor;
she could not bear to put them on, and time was
precious. She sped through the bare corridor
and down the stairs; then paused with a sudden
thrill of gladness in the midst of her fear, as she
thrust open the door of the brilliant heaven
whose joys she had so often imagined. It was
the gayest sight she had ever seen. Maggie must
be a witch so to transform the bare dining-room.
A great fire burned in the chimney. The table-
cloth shone in dazzling white circles under the
shaded candles, and in the circles the wine-
filled glasses cast deep, ruddy shadows. Rings
of smoke rose lightly, and tossed above the can-
dle flames. Opposite her was her father's face,
at the same time bright and care-worn. Next
him sat Uncle Jack, and there were four others
whom she remembered dimly. Their presence
made her ashamed of her short nightgown and
bare legs. She held one foot and then the other
in the bar of light that fell through the opening
of the door, to make sure that they were not too
dirty; then she flew across the room lik6 an
arrow, leaped into her father's lap, and hid her
face on his shoulder.

The guests came to their feet, startled, and
Hudson exclaimed, " Why, it's my little Dode."

John Glenn did not move, but he put his arms
warmly about her and bent his face over her
neck. " What is it, little daughter? '' he whis-
pered.

A WINGED VICTORY

"Peter's got the croup," she cried, "and I
didn't know what to do with him."

"What's that? One of the kids ill? Go up
and see what's wrong. Bell," commanded Hud-
son.

Glenn rang. " That's good of you. Maggie'U
show you up," he said.

Hudson leaned over and put his hand on
Dora's back.

" Turn round to the fire, John," he said.
" She'll take cold. What's the matter with
her poor little legs? Who's been beating the
child? "

The caressing warmth and kindness went over
Dora like a flame, and left her in tears. She
would not raise her head, but, nestled in her
father's bosom, she brought out her little Iliad
of woe, — how they had gone to Dutchy Messer's
to get honey, and Messer had caught them, and
they had got wet coming come, and Maggie had
been cross and sent them supperless to bed, and
the window wouldn't shut, and the candle had
blown out, and now Peter had the fever. " He
must have his supper, papa," she finished. " He
was so thin when T undressed him, and I couldn't
find his nightgown."

" Who in God's name ever licenced you to be
a father, Glenn ! " broke out Hudson.

Glenn did not notice him. He was patting
Dora, and speaking to her in a soft, crooning
voice.

" It's a hard world, little Dora," he was saying.
" What you have told us only confirms me in that

A WINGED VICTORY

opinion. We are so full of misery, were it not
better not to be? Did you ever think of that,
little one? Is it worth while? Is it at all worth
while, to go through this cold, wet, dark, cruel
world just to have our guess at the riddle of it
all? We're sure to guess wrong, you know, and
we haven't another guess coming."

Dora lay quite still in her father's arms, weep-
ing a little in sympathy with the strain in his
voice, and yet dimly aware that he was playing
with her, as he always did.

"Oh, cut that out, Glenn," broke in Jack
Hudson. "I'm Dora's spiritual father, and I
won't have her made a pessimist. Look up,
Dode. It's a bully world, bright, and warm, and
kind. You've only to trust it and smile and
you'll get what you want, if you really want it."

Dora raised her head from her father's breast.
He had swung around so that her white-clad
body was between him and the fire, and only
her face, glowing darkly under her brown hair,
was visible. She was happily conscious of the
warmth of the fire and the protection of her
father's broad shoulders, and she smiled, as
Uncle Jack bade her.

" Bravo ! " cried Hudson. " That's a bold face
to put on the matter. What do you want now
most of all? "

"I want Peter not to have the croup," said
Dora.

" f^eter will be all right," said Bell, returning.
"I've given him something that will knock the
cold out of him."

A WINGED VICTORY

Dora smiled at the doctor thankfully. " Well,
then," she considered, " I'd like some supper."

"Of course," said Hudson. "Here, try this
breast of chicken."

" I'd rather have the drumstick," said Dora.

" But that has a wishbone in it," urged Hud-
son. " Eat oflf the meat, and you'll find it."

The guests sat in silence watching the child
eat.

When the wish-bone emerged, Hudson hung
it to dry in front of the fire, and Dora went on
to the other member that makes the chicken part
of the romance of childhood.

" May I offer Miss Dora some wine? " asked
the man at the end of the table, holding out a
glass.

Dora tasted the bright liquor.

"I'd rather look at it," she said, politely.
" It's too pretty to drink."

" Better toss it down, Dode," said her father.
" It will make you see Uncle Jack's world, all
bright, and warm, and kind."

" No," cried Hudson. " I'll drink your health,
Dode, in the glass that you have sweetened.
Here's a toast to Dora. May she always smile
on the world."

" And if she smiles like that she will find the
world at her feet. Here's to you, brave lady,"
cried the man at the end.

" What do you want now. Miss Dora? " asked
a third.

" Someone to carry me to bed," she replied,
sleepily.

A WINGED VICTORY

"I, I, I," from the three. "Which do you
choose. Miss Dora? ''

" Uncle Jack," she said.

" Now which world do you believe in, your
father's or mine? " asked Hudson, as he picked
her up.

" Yours, Uncle Jack."

"And youMl always trust it, even when it
whips you or blows out your candle? "

" Sure, I will."

" Hold on. Here's your wish-bone. It's quite
dry. You must wish with me. Think again
what you want more than anything else."

" Oh, no. Uncle Jack. If you don't mind, I'd
rather not. I'd like to save it for Peter. He
might get his wish, you know."

Hudson bent his head. "Darn it all," he
muttered. " Well, then, save it for Peter. And
now I think you should bestow a kiss on the gal-
lant gentlemen who have drunk your health —
and so to bed. Hoch das Lebenl ^^

CHAPTER II

GLENWOOD waB described in the real estate
advertisements, in which it perennially
figured, as " A gentleman's mansion, with stables
for ten horses, and grounds of a hundred acres,
less than thirty miles from Chicago.'' It had
been part of a large venture in land in which
John Glenn had embarked some years before.
He had been tempted by the spreading enthusi-
asm in America for country life, to forecast a
colony which should combine the attractions of
several more famous communities. East and
West,— outdoor games, hunting, horse-racing,
gambling, polite gossip, exclusive scandal, and
modest debauchery — in short, what might be
called a high-class sporting community. Glenn
had been under the impression that the harvest
of multi-millionaries in a certain year was too
large to be gathered at once into the existing
storehouses, that there were many families, re-
cently enriched, which were willing to pay hand-
somely for distinction and exclusiveness, but
which, for mere lack of accommodation, re-
mained undistinguished and excluded. How-
ever, though Glenn acted promptly and vigor-
ously, his enterprise came to the ground. Part
of the crop of millionaires was damaged by a
premature frost, and rotted where it stood. The
rest was harvested to the North Shore and the
Wisconsin Lakes, which developed unexpected

^A WINGED VICTORY

powers of expansion. In the end, the Glenwood
Associates disbanded, and left their promoter
with his gentleman's mansion and its stables, a
half-built club-honse, and a roughly graded race-
course.

Fop the moment Glenn had retrieved his for-
tunes by the exploits of his famous two-year-old,
Happy Thought, and a quick drive against the
shorts in com, and had repaired his social pres-
tige by a winter in New York ; but the next year
his agricultural forecast had been wrong, and
the colt had been done to death at New Orleans.
Accordingly he had returned by several stages
to Glenwood, and had been forced to cut down
his establishment to a pair of horses, the half-
mad Maggie and drunken Henry.

John Glenn was essentially the speculator ; he
recognised himself as such and justified him-
self. Was not the speculator the man who, at
his own risk, acted as buffer between present
and future, preventing those violent crashes
which would occur if these two worlds came to-
gether too suddenly? Hence Glenn continued
to practise his boyish habit of guessing, trusting
to the promptness of his response to atone for
minoi* inaccuracies. He guessed on everything,
wheat, corn, cotton, stocks, election majorities,
horses, yachts, base ball, and billiards. And his
habit of guessing right gave himself, his friends
and followers, even the impersonal public, con-
fidence in his forecasts; but this confidence
proved his undoing, for when he did guess wrong
it meant nothing short of disaster.

A WINGED VICTORY

In spite of his vicissitudes John Glenn kept
the look of youth. Perhaps it was because he
lived so boldly in the future that time had so
little power over him. His bright black hair
and eyes, his sanguine skin, his buoyant carriage,
all defied the envious hag. His easy, effortless
management of the world saved him from the
wear and tear of experience. He had the tem-
perament of the gambler, careless in success,
mocking in failure. Of late his attitude was
chiefly mockery, and this surface was really all
of him that Dora knew. She adored him, but
her adoration was kept at distance by his irony.
Her spirit leaped up at his invitation to play,
only to fall back abashed at not comprehending
the terms of the game.

The residence at Glenwood, begun as a tem-
porary measure, was prolonged, as the advan-
tages of the arrangement became more apparent
to Glenn's mind. It left him his freedom; and
it was cheaper and safer than hotel life for the
girls. In the winter they lived like rats — cold
in the great, badly-built house which offered poor
protection against the prairie winds, lonely amid
the snow drifts which cut them oflf from the
world. But in the spring after the Messer epi-
sode Glenwood enjoyed a period of prosperity.
Each of the girls had a pony, and John Glenn
increased his establishment and brought down
guests every week for poker at night, and cross-
country riding in the morning. Uusually these
were men, but once a party of ladies arrived, who
disembarked with much laughter and chatter.

A WINGED VICTOEY

That evening there was music and the scent of
flowers all through the house, so that Dora's
senses rang with excitement. Uncle Jack came
stealing to her bedside, as he always did, this
time with a rooster made of ice cream, and at her
begging he took her in his arms, carried her down
the stairs, and let her peep through the doors
of the drawing-room. He gave her but a second
to look, and the sight was so wonderful that it
lost all reality in the girPs memory and became
a fragment of dreamland. A wonderful crea-
ture rose in the centre of the room, like a great
flower, whirling in the rhythm of the music amid
a flying mass of fllmy colour. Yet when Dora
could believe in its reality, this scene was for her
the high point of life, and the dancing lady its
object of greatest splendour. She told Jack
Hudson that she meant to be a dancing lady
herself.

Of such unrelated fragments, some of them
sparkling, others dull, life in Dora's view con-
sisted, fragments that turned up by accident
like bits of coloured glass in the waste heap, and
that fell into no conceivable form or pattern.
Uncle Jack held that the bright things turned
up oftener, and of late Dora was inclined to
agree with him. Anyway, things happened as
they did, and you took what came, and smiled
and made the best of it. Something that oc-
curred when she was nearly twelve gave her the
first idea of trying to put things together in some
kind of order and wholeness; and this was a
catastrophe, understood but vaguely at the time,

A WINGED VICTORY

which scattered her fragments and sent the
brightest bits flying into space, where they were
lost forever.

It was an antnmn day, in which a keen morn-
ing had given place to a mild noon. The Glenn
children were riding home for luncheon, Linda
ahead and Dora, with Peter as usual perched be-
hind her, coming as fast as her doubly laden
pony would bear her. She was sleepily con-
scious of the pale blue and gold of the weather,
its faint reminiscence of summer sound and
odour, its windless, dying peace. At the race-
track Linda was waiting for her.

" Beat you home, Dode,*' she called.

Dora awoke to the world of struggle.

"Get down, Peter. Oh, get down quick. I
must beat her. I'll come back for you — ^truly
I will."

Peter half swung, half fell to the ground, and
away the ponies went, around the track, then
through the gate and up the lane that led to the
stables^ Linda leading, but Dora pushing her
hard. The rush carried them out upon the
rough grass plot that served for a front lawn,
and there in the driveway they came full upon a
carriage. John Glenn was standing beside it,
helping a lady who descended somewhat doubt-
fully and stood looking about her with an air of
extreme disapproval.

The girls reined in their ponies, too much im-
pressed by the arrival to dispute over which had
won.

" Who d'you 'spose it is? '' gasped Dora.

A WINGED VICTORY

" Huh, I know. It's Aunt Bella. We were
at her house once, before we went to N^York.
I guess I know what she's come for, too. She's
come to take me to live with her. She's terrible
rich, and lives in a big house in Chicago. She's
niy godmother — my fairy godmother? "

" Oh, Linda, dear, you won't leave Peter and
me and father, will you? "

" Sure," said Linda, shortly. " Did you ever
hear of a girl who wouldn't go with her fairy
godmother? "

" I'm glad she isn't my godmother, then," said
Dora, looking with little favour on Mrs. Hen-
derson's burly, purple-clad person.

Their father was leading her up the piazza
steps ; and beckoned to the girls. Linda started
forward, but Dora turned back to pick up Peter.
She found that small boy breathlessly trying to
turn over a stump.

" Come quick, Dode," he called. " There's a
snake under here, a big black 'nd lellow one.'*

"No, Peter. You must come home with me'
right awJty. Do you know who's come? Aunt
Bella from Chicago, and she's going to take
Linda away with her."

Dora and Peter arrived at the drawing-room
where the three were sitting — John Glenn with
a look of haggard worry on his faded young face ;
Aunt Bella with an expression of stony repose
on her high, brightly relieved features; .Linda
between them, almost a young lady in her com-
placency. In an instant Dora knew that Linda
had guessed right, and her own heart sank.

A WINGED VICTORY

"This is my younger daughter, Bella," said
John Glenn, taking Dora's little, thin, brown
paw in his nervous grasp, "and that is Peter.
Go and speak to your aunt, Dora/'

Dora went obediently and kissed her aunt.
Then she returned to her father, and stood
gravely beside him, her arms upon his shoul-
der.

" It is understood, then,'' said Mrs. Hender-
son, as if continuing a conversation, "that I
take the girls."

Dora's eyes opened wide. Evidently there
was enough godmotherliness in the world to go
around. But her arms went tighter about her
father's neck.

" Well," said Glenn, " Linda has decided, and
it is for Dora to say."

" No, papa dear," said Dora, softly, " I don't
want to go away from you."

" They will be brought up," said Mrs. Hen-
derson, as if Dora had not spoken, " like my own
children. I shall accept them as a charge from
Anna."

" But you see," returned Glenn, " that
Dora "

" Nonsense," interrupted Mrs. Henderson,
shaking her plumed head. " Of course it is im-
possible for them to grow up here any longer,
like little heathen. They have to be educated,
I should hope. They have to be taught how to
behave in society. They have to be married some
day."

"You see how it is, Dora," said her father,

A WINGED VICTORY

drawing her closer. " You have to be educated.
You have to be taught how to behave in society.
You have to be married. I can^t educate you, or
teach you how to behave, or marry you."

" Oh, papa," wailed Dora, " I don't have to
be."

" This is no place for young girls to grow up
in, John," continued Mrs. Henderson, " and you
won't be able to take them away, especially after
this trouble in the Board."

" I know, Bella," said Glenn, with some haste.
" Dora, dear, it will certainly be better for you
to go to your aunt with Linda. Papa meant to
send you away to school anyway in a year or
two. Now, I can't be sure. There isn't much
money. There will be less than ever after this.
Aunt Bella has plenty."

" Is Aunt Bella going to take Peter? " asked
Dora.

"You may address yourself to me directly,
Dora," said Mrs. Henderson. " No, I cannot
take a small child, especially a boy. I have no
room for a nursery, and I do not propose to
engage a nurse-maid. You and your sister are
coming as young ladies, and will be treated as
such. I have too much respect for my furniture
to have a boy in the house."

" Oh, papa, then of course I can't go. I can't
leave Peter here with only you and Maggie. He
wouldn't have anybody to look after him or
play with him. And Peter's mine, you know.
Mamma gave him to me. I dress him now and
wash him. In a little while I shall be big enough

A WINGED VICTORY

to keep the house for you. Dear papa^ I truly
must stay with Peter and you."

"John Glenn/^ cried his sister-in-law, "you
aren't going to add to your sins by keeping that
girl here, away from all Christian influences, and
education, and morality. She isn't even prop-
erly clad, and she doesn't know where to put her .
hands or how to walk."

Dora felt the blood warm in her cheeks. She
could knot her fingers behind her back, and stand
straight, but the tear in her dress, through which,
by glancing from the corners of her eyes, she
could see her brown shoulder — there was no help
for that.

Her father patted her softly.

" Dora will have a chance to change her mind
before Linda leaves," he said. " For the present
we won't urge her farther. And now let me offer
you such hospitality as I can. Dora, tell Maggie
to serve luncheon."

But Mrs. Henderson would not commit herself
so far as to take food.' " I should as soon think
of eating in Sodom and Gomorrah," she re-
marked, and Glenn parried with an allusion to
Lot's wife. She kissed Linda and Dora impar-
tially, and Glenn drove away with her to the sta-
tion; while the children revelled in the miracu-
lous luncheon that Maggie had conjured up.

They sat on the veranda afterwards — the three
of them — in the sun. The lower step had broken
away from the others, leaving a dark crevice
which Peter's bare feet delighted to explore.
They had not spoken of their aunt's visit

A WINGED VICTORY

since luncheon, but now Linda reverted to the
topic.

" I expect that Aunt Bella will leave me her
money/' she said, suddenly. "You know that
papa said she had plenty."

" Oh, Linda," said Dora, " are you really going
to leave Peter, and papa, and me? "

Linda nodded her flaxen head firmly.

" You're a fool not to, Dora."

" She wouldn't take Peter. That was real
mean of her, and I don't care how much money
she's got"

" We can come back and get Peter after she's
dead," noted Linda.

" Why Linda Glenn ! " exclaimed Dora, aghast
at such calculation. " And what do you think
Peter'd be like after those years with no one
to wash him or brush his hair? "

She drew Peter's tousled head down and went
at the snarly curls with her fingers. Peter
squirmed and at last got free.

" Peter's going t' git that snake," he said, " th'
big black 'nd lellow one under th' stump. Come
on, Dode."

But Dora sat still on the steps, clasping her
knees with her hands. Only after Peter had dis-
appeared she began again in a half whisper.

" What d' you 'spose Aunt Bella meant about
papa? "

" Ho," said Linda, " I heard about that before
you came in. Papa's been keeping a bucket-
shop, and now he's going to lose all his money."

"A bucket-shop! What's that, Linda?"

A WINGED VICTORY

" Where they sell buckets, silly.''

"But how can he lose his money selling
buckets? ''

"His buckets leak/' replied Linda. "And
people won't buy of him any more. So he won't
have any money to send us to school, or get us
dresses. That's why Aunt Bella thought of
taking us now. If you don't come you won't
have any nice clothes to wear, or go to school,
or grow up to be married."

" Yes I shall," said Dora. " I can go to school
at the village."

" With the Dutch children ! "

"And I'll grow up anyway, and marry with
Uncle Jack."

" Uncle Jack keeps the bucket-shop with
father — I heard Aunt Bella say that — ^and so
he's lost his money, too."

" Well," rejoined Dora, stoutly, " they'll need
me all the more to keep house if they can't pay
Maggie. And they'll get plenty more money.
Men can always earn it."

Linda rose. "I'm going to look over my
clothes. If you don't come I'll give you my pink
frock, Dode. It only comes down to my knees."

"Oh, will you really, Linda? But I don't
want you to go away any more for that."

She jumped up and gave Linda a kiss, which
was accepted. Then, as her sister walked se-
dately into the house, Dora sat down again on
the rickety steps. The afternoon was full of
warmth and sweetness. The sun fell broadly
upon the prairie, yellow all about with sere grass

A WINGED VICTORY

and fields of uncut cornstalks, misty purple at
the edges where the woods appeared. The little
lake smiled bright blue, and even the ragged,
untidy village on its bank, with its glaring new
ice-houses, was not uncomely in its peace. Here
at Dora's feet, her flowers — frostbitten dahlias
and nasturtiums — died bravely. In the ash tree,
near the back door, the blue jays screamed sav-
agely at the red-headed woodpecker, who went
about his business unconcerned. The ponies,
Jess and Tony, came to the gate of the paddock
and looked wistfully at the little girl through
their tumbled manes. Away in the half -cleared
field within the grass-grown track was Peter,
bending to his task. For the first time Dora was
conscious that this place with all its fragments,
its half-fulfilled purposes, was her home, and
that she loved it. She looked up at the weather-
battered fa9ade of the house, unconscious of its
flagrant pretence, and murmured :

" I'll never leave you, never, never, so long as
papa and Peter are here."

It seemed but a little while afterwards that
Uncle Jack called to her. He had come up afoot
from the station four miles' distant, and was hot
and dishevelled.

" Is your father here, Dora? " he was saying.

She jumped to her feet and would have run
to him, but something cold in his voice and
manner held her aloof.

" No, Uncle Jack. He went away at luncheon
time to drive Aunt Bella to the station. ' I've
been here ever since, and he hasn't come back."

A WINGED VICTORY

"Your Aunt Bella — Mrs. Henderson — ^has
she been here? ''

"Yes. She came to take Linda and me to
live with her, and Linda's going, but I'm not."

There were heavy footsteps within, and her
father came to the door.

"Well, what have they done, Hudson?'' he
asked.

" Damn you, Glenn, they've thrown us out of
the Board," cried Hudson.

Dora shrank still further away from him. It
was terrible that he should speak to her father
as Maggie spoke to Henry, when he was drunk.

For a moment there was silence between the
two men. Then Glenn said mildly :

" All right. Come in. We'll talk it over."

The door swung to behind them.

Dora rubbed her sleepy eyes and looked out
on the changed world. It was not that the
golden afternoon was turning grey, but that life
was emptying itself of her treasures. Her father
had gone past her without a word or a caress;
her Uncle Jack had come to quarrel with him;
Linda was going away. She was lonely and
vaguely miserable. Then she remembered Peter,
aud went in search of him.

Peter had wandered far from the snake-hole,
and it was an hour before she returned with him.
When she reached the house the horses were
pawing the driveway, and Jack Hudson was
standing beside them, holding his watch.

" Come here, Dora," he called. " I want to see
you a minute."

A WINGED VICTORY

His voice had grown kind again. Dora sent
Peter to tlie kitchen and ran to obey the sum-
mons. As she came up panting, Hudson took
her hand and led her down the driveway.

" I want to talk to you, Dora," he said, " be-
fore — ^well, I'm going to clear out. I'm going
to San Francisco and I shan't be back for a
good while, I'm afraid. Never mind that. Dora,
you've got to go with your aunt. I don't see any
way out of it for you. It's bully of you to want
to stay with your father and Peter, but they'll
have to take their chances. This is yours — to
go to Mrs. Henderson with Linda."

"Uncle Jack, I can't ever. I can't ever.
Mamma gave Peter to me. I won't leave
him."

" But don't you see that if you want to take
care of Peter you've got to help yourself? You've
got to go to school, and learn all the things girls
learn now-a-days; and, good Lord, Dora! you
can't stay here, simply can't — with your father."

" Poor papa," sighed Dora.

"Well, let that alone. You've got to be
brought up."

" I can bring myself up. Uncle Jack, and Peter
too. I'll take him to the school in the vil-
lage."

Hudson groaned. "Yes, a country school.
Who knows what the devil they do there. No,
Dora, I can't leave you here. I'm responsible
for you before God, and I want you to promise
me that you'll go with Linda."

" No, no. Uncle Jack. You musn't ask me to.

A WINGED VICTORY

Aunt Bella wouldn't take Peter. She said he'd
spoil her furniture." Dora gulped back a sob.
" I've got to stay with him."

For a moment or two they walked on in
silence. Then Hudson began again in a dif-
ferent tone.

"Do you remember, Dode, that I told you
once to trust the world, and you'd get what you
want — that it was a bully old world and all
that? "

" Yes, I remember. Uncle Jack."

" Well, it's true. If I were only here to look
out for you it would be all right, but as it is
I've got to put you on your guard a bit. You
ought to have all the joy there is in life, Dora,
but remember — there are some things. Oh,
you'll understand later what I mean. Some day
you'll love someone — a, man. He won't be worth
it, and he'll make you miserable, but you'll go
on loving him, and that will be all right — only
be sure that you do love him in the first
place."

Dora looked up wonderingly.

" Do you mean my husband ? " she asked. " I
thought I would marry with you. Uncle Jack."

Hudson put his arm about her.

" I'm an old man, Dode," he said, softly, " and
a broken one. I am very fond of you, little one :
I loved your mother. That's why I went part-
ners with your father, and stayed around wait-
ing for this smash-up. Now It's come, and I'm
going away, and it won't be me that you'll love,
Dora."

A WINGED VICTORY

" Yes it will, Uncle Jack, if you'll only stay
until I grow up."

" I shouldn't dare to do that, Dora," said Hud-
son, with a dull smile. " I'm a dead one. I'm
going to drop out of your life for good, I suppose.
But before I go there are some things — ^things
that you can understand. That school now.
There will be bad boys and girls there. Do you
know, Dora, that you are going to be pretty —
handsome? Do you know what that means? "

Dora hung her head.

"Promise me this, little Dora, that you will
never let a boy kiss you — ^not till you grow up
and — understand things. I don't want them to
touch you, Dora. Will you remember that
now? "

Dora nodded her head silently, without raising
her eyes.

"And your dresses, Dora. You must wear
them longer, below your knees, and — what's this?
A hole?" His hand on her shoulder felt her
warm skin through her torn dress. " You must
learn to mend your clothes, dear — ^and for God's
sake, Dora, wear a shirt. I wish I could take
you with me, poor motherless, fatherless kid.
Don't feel bad about it. I love you as you are

—but other people . Yes, I love your little

brown shoulder peeping out, and your long legs,
though I want you to cover them up. Good-bye,
Dode, old chap. Here, give me a kiss."

Dora flung her arms around his neck.

" I don't want you to go. Uncle Jack. I don't
want you to. I don't want you to."

A WINGED VICTORY

Hudson gently unclasped her hands, and
through the rent in her frock, he kissed her
shoulder. Then he ran back toward the car-
riage which came to meet him, swung himself up
beside Henry, the dust cloud closed behind him,
and Dora saw him no more.

CHAPTER III

ON that October day Dora Glenn first vaguely
took account of the diminished material of
her life, and of what she had to do with it. The
consequences of all that had happened, of her
father's ruin, of Uncle Jack's desertion, of her
aunt's plan of salvation which Linda had ac-
cepted and she had refused, she could not esti-
mate, but she realised that altogether they made
a situation which had to be faced.

That evening after she had put Peter to bed
she came down to the kitchen, wrapped in an
old coat of her father's, and carrying a child's
work-box, which had never before been taken
seriously.

" What are you going to do, Dora? " inquired
Linda.
" I'm going to mend my frock," replied Dora.
Sitting down, she took a long needleful of white
I cotton, and began laboriously to sew a piece of
scarlet flannel to the ravelled edges of the tear
in her wine-coloured dress.
"Are you going to Aunt Bella's after all?"
f demanded Linda, after a few minutes of con-
^ templation.
I Dora shook her head.

" Then why are you mending that old hole? It
hegan last Fourth of July when the sparks fell
on it and burned it, and you've worn^ it all
summer."

)

A WINGED VICTORY

" I'm going to mend all my clothes, and
Peter's, too."

" I shall leave you my pink dress, you know.
I'm sure that Aunt Bella will give me all the
clothes I want"

" Oh, Linda," cried Dora, eagerly, " won't you
give me your underclothes? I haven't got hardly
any. Mine are so shrunk that Peter can hardly
get into them."

" Yes, I guess so. If I don't bring any Aunt
Bella'll have to get me some, and she'll get silk
ones that won't shrink or scratch. I'll give you
my winter coat, too."

Dora jumped up to kiss her sister.

"And I'll always send you my worn clothes
when Aunt Bella gives me new ones, so you
needn't bother to mend that old rag."

" Oh, yes," said Dora, taking another needle-
ful, " I'll have to wear this to school to-morrow."

" To school? "

Dora nodded her head violently as she bit off
her thread.

" I'm going to take Peter."

"To school, with the Dutch children?"

" He's got to learn somewhere. He don't even
know his letters."

" I don't believe that papa'll let you."

" He don't know what we do, and anyway if
he can't send us to a good school, he'll have to
let us go to that one. Aunt Bella'll make you
go to school, and I ain't going to be behind you
in everything."

" I shall go to school where nice children go,"

A WINGED VICTORY

said Linda, with a yawn. " Now, I'm going to
bed."

Dora continued to ply her needle until her
fingers were sore from pushing it through the
heavy cloth. At last she surveyed her work with
satisfaction, and slipped on the dress to try the
eflfect. The new cloth with its white facing
stood out crudely, and there were many gathers
and puckers in it, but at least the hole was
stopped. Her shoulder quivered a little under
the patch. She was glad that Uncle Jack had
kissed her there, but nobody else ever should.

The beginning of Peter's education was post-
poned by the necessity of mending his shirts and
trousers. And as Dora sat plying her ineffec-
tual needle, the next afternoon, her father found
her.

" Never mind it," he said. " We'll all go to
the city to-morrow with Linda, and I'll rig him
out, and you, too, little woman."

He kissed the poor, tortured forefinger as he
hurried by.

Dora flung aside her work with relief and went
to tell Linda. But before she found her, the joy
in the prospect was checked by the thought that
its realisation was bound up with her sister's
departure. The rest of that day she followed
Linda about, like a devoted puppy, trained to
fetch and carry. The next morning she awoke
early, and lay for a while gazing into the grey
shadows that hung about the room. She did
not dare to move for fear of disturbing Linda,
but lay just near enough to feel the warmth of

A WINGED VICTORY

her sister's body. At length, with the thought
that this was the last time that they would sleep
together, the foreboding of years and years of
lonely nights and mornings came over her, and
with a sob she threw her arms about Linda and
clung to her. For once Linda understood, and
when she was awake a little she kissed Dora in
return and told her not to cry.

Dressing was a solemn aflfair that day, for
during its progress Linda finally divested herself
of her now superfluous possessions, which Dora
humbly received and promised to cherish. There
was a coral necklace over which Linda hesitated
long, but finally retained, with a promise that
if Aunt Bella gave her a finer one she would send
the little pink beads back to Dora.

" But I can't say that it's likely," she added.
^^Aunt Bella is a very religious woman, and I
don't expect much jewellery from her, though I
shall ask her for a watch."

At this manifestation of worldly wisdom Dora
marvelled, and thought again that Linda was
certainly very clever. It came over her with a
pang that she had nothing to give Linda in
return. She had never acquired any treasures,
except a locket which had been her mother's, and
the ridiculous little work-box.

" Oh, Linda," she sighed, as she raised her
dripping face from the wash-basin, "I wish I
had something to give you to remember me
by."

" Well," said Linda, considering, " there's your
locket, you know, Dode."

A WINGED VICTORY

** My ' locket ! that was my mamma's ! Oh,
Linda^ I — I couldn't give anyone that."

Linda did not press the point, but continued
to try the efifect of the coral beads before the
glass.

" We might exchange,'' she suggested. ** You
could remember me by the beads, and I remember
you by the locket."

" But it was my mamma's," said Dora, " my
own mamma's. The only thing I've got that
was hers."

a We've got her Bible," said Linda. " I'll give
you my half of that"

Dora dried her face slowly. Then she went
to her drawer, took out the locket and chain,
and hung it about her sister's neck.

" She was your mamma, too," she said.

Linda's face in the glass was all smiles.

"And I don't want your beads," Dora went
on, "until you are sure that you won't need
them."

"Well," said Linda, "perhaps — until Aunt
Bella gives me something better."

At breakfast John Glenn's irony played lightly
with the situation until Dora's tears choked her,
and she ran to hide her face on her father's
shoulder.

"All right, all right, Dode," said he. "I
know exactly how you feel. My heart bleeds
with yours, my child, over the loss of this be-
loved sister, the ornament of our home. We
shall always remember Linda, and her virtues
will grow brighter in retrospect."

A WINGED VICTORY

"You shouldn't play on Dora's emotions,
papa," said Linda, quoting Uncle Jack.

" Quite right, Linda,'' said her father. " Here
endeth the first lesson. Now may I have the
honour of driving you to Eggleston, to take the
train? "

The carriage was at the door with Linda's
trunk. As they all got in Dora caught sight of
Jess and Tony looking at them over the bars
of the paddock.

" Oh, Linda," she begged, " won't you give me
Jess, and I'll give Tony to Peter. He's gentler,
and Peter can ride him by himself."

Linda demurred a little.

"Jess isn't Linda's to give," remarked John
Glenn, grimly, "any more than the greys are
mine. We'll be sold out presently under the
hammer. Linda's fleeing from the wrath to come.
But we'll get our last ride together, anyhow."

The ride was prelude to a parti-coloured day.
They went shopping in the morning and clothed
Peter like a young prince. Then they went to a
beautiful room overlooking the lake, and feasted
royally; and finally they went to a vaudeville
show. As they emerged from the garish palace
of pleasure into the glooming streets Glenn said
that it was time for Linda to go to her new home,
and proposed that the whole party should escort
her to Mrs. Henderson's; but Linda reminded
him of her aunt's prejudice against Peter. So
back to the waiting-room of the station they
went, bearing their bundles as trophies of the
day's hunting; and there, with a few kisses,

A WINGED VICTORY

Linda said farewell, and went away with her
father, leaving the others to await his return.

This tragic episode, following the brilliant ex-
periences of the day, was too much for Dora, and
she cried softly. As soon as she saw that Peter
was crying, too, she dried her eyes and went to
get him a glass of water. She threaded her way
carefully among the people hurrying to and fro,
their importance marked in her eyes by the
amount of baggage which followed them carried
by red-capped porters. On her return she looked
with some pride at the little heap of parcels
beside her, which marked their place in the
world. Yet she realised that the prosperity of
that day was an illusion. Her father^s remark
in the morning about being sold up was not for-
gotten, and he had spiced the pleasure of the day
by allusions to " the wrath to come " and " after
us the deluge,'^ which had not entirely escaped
her. She knew that henceforth they were some-
how at odds with the world; that while Linda
had found a shelter, the rest of them must face
the storm. She imagined her aunt's parlour,
where Linda was now eating bread and jam or
even plum cake, and then she looked out on the
dingy waiting-room, where the electric lights
shone dimly in the fog and smoke that blew in
from outside, and she shivered. She knew that
their part in life was to push through that un-
friendly throng, which jostled her as she went
back and forth, to and from the drinking foun-
tain, to assuage Peter's peanut-begotten thirst.

On one of these expeditions she came upon a

A WINGED VICTORY

little group standing about the fountain — a
woman with a baby on her arm, holding by the
hand a little girl scarcely able to stand alone,
while a boy, not so large as Peter, was mounted
on a valise trying to press the faucet. Dora
stood timidly by for a moment. Then she said
to the woman, who was looking on helplessly :

"May I help him?"

" Oh, thank you so much," came the answer.
" Willy, get down. This young lady will get the
water."

Dora stepped up briskly and drew a full glass
for each of the children. As they turned to go
the small boy seized the handle of the valise
with both hands, and staggered with it a few
steps before he had to set it down.

" Oh, let me take it," said Dora, going to the
rescue again.

" I'm afraid it's too heavy for you," protested
the woman. " I have to carry baby's milk in it.
One of the porters ought to help us, but Willy
can work it along to the stairs."

" I'm strong," said Dora,

She swung the bag clear of the floor with one
hand and helped the tottering little girl with
the other. They reached the stairway leading
down to the trains, but there Dora paused.

" If you don't mind, I'd like to go back to
Peter — my little brother — to see if he's all right."

But the woman had caught sight of the clock.

" Oh, if you please, just down the steps," she
urged. " I've only a minute to get my train."

There was nothing for it but to keep on, and

A WINGED VICTOEY

the frantic little party swayed down the stair-
way, the bag at the end of Dora's short, tired
arm bumping at every step.

" I wish that you could hold it up higher,''
said the woman. " If you break baby's bottles
I don't know what I shall do."

" I'm trying," gasped Dora.

The gateman tried to stop them for tickets,
but their momentum carried them beyond him,
and brought them up beside the waiting train.
Here a brakeman took the bag and helped the
two children to scramble aboard. The woman
turned to Dora :

"I don't know whether I ought to give you
something. Would you like ten cents — for your
little brother? " she asked.

" No, thank you," said Dora, drawing back.

" Well, good-bye then."

They were gone — the train was moving.

Dora started back the way she had come, in
her anxiety running along ,the platform. When
she reached the gate she found it closed. She
seized the iron bars and tried to push it back,
but it was immovable. There were crowds of
people just outside, passing so near that she
could touch them, but to her pleading little voice,
"Please let me out," no one paid the slightest
attention. She shut her eyes to keep back the
tears. Dora's feeling about the supernatural
was of the vaguest, but she cried to herself, under
her breath, " Dear God ! Dear God ! Help me to
get out, and find Peter."

Suddenly the gate swung back, and the man

A WINGED VICTORY

by whom they had pushed, and another man in
uniform, stood in the opening.

" Oh, thank you,'^ said Dora, and tried to pass
between them, but a hand on her shoulder
stopped her.

" This is one o' them kids that totes in bags,"
said the gateman. " We don't want them about,
specially girls. I guess you'd better take her."

" Please let me go," begged Dora. " I must
find Peter, my little brother. I helped the lady
because she couldn't get to her train. I didn't
know it was wrong."

" Didn't she give you some money? "

" No. I mean, she offered me ten cents for
my brother, but I didn't take it."

" Little liar," commented the gateman.

" No, I guess not," said the policeman, kindly.
" Where is your brother? "

"He's up in the waiting-room with a lot of
bundles."

" I'll go with you, and if I find that you have
been lying, it's to the Friendless that you'll go,
my girl. Come on."

He took Dora's hand, and she almost dragged
him along in her haste. Upstairs the waiting-
room looked strange to her. There were not
nearly so many people there as before. But
surely it was the same place — there was the old
negro woman sitting in a rocking-chair, her
valise under her feet and her knitting in her
hands — ^but on the seat opposite there was no
pile of bundles, and no Peter.

A WINGED VICTORY

"He's gone, he^s gone!" cried Dora. "I
must find him. Help me find him. He had on
a blue shirt and a plaid sash, and a grey jacket
and a red cap," she cried.

^^ All right, all right," said the policeman. " I
guess we'll pick him up."

But they went up and down the long room
twice in vain search.

" Oh, do ask somebody," begged Dora.

" I bet you're kidding me," said the policeman,
but he allowed her to lead him about as she suc-
cessively questioned the old negress in the rock-
ing-chair, the man at the magazine counter, and a
group of red-capped boys at the door.

" Ever see this girl before? " the policeman
inquired of the last.

" Yep," answered one. " I've seen her hang-
ing around."

" You know that isn't true," said Dora. " I've
never been here before. My name is Dora Glenn,
and I live at Glenwood, near Prairie Grove."

The policeman surveyed her and shook his
head. She had on Linda's pink, thin gown, No-
vember though it was, a torn and spotted jacket,
and a straw hat with flowers — ^also Linda's.

"'Tain't likely, with such clothes as them,"
remarked the officer. "How old?"

" I'm twelve."

The officer looked at her well-filled-out jacket
and her long legs, and whistled.

"I'm afraid you're a bad girl, Dora, but it
ain't for me to say. Come on. I've got to put

A WINGED VICTORY

you somewhere for the night, so we'll just walk
over to Harrison Street, and let the matron have
a look at you/'

He took her by the arm, but with a quick twist
she broke away, and stood facing the crowd of
jeering boys, and the puzzled ofl&cer.

"Don't you touch me," she cried. "I shall
wait here until my father comes. He left me
here to watch Peter and the bundles, and you've
let them be stolen. I shall go straight to the
seat where he left us."

And, the group parting before her, she marched
across to the bench opposite the old negress in
the rocking-chair, and sat down.

How long she sat there, dry-eyed, tense, she did
not know. It was long enough for all possible
fates to overtake Peter in her swift thoughts.
She saw all the terrors of the city that she knew
and that she imagined, overwhelm him one by one
— darkness, the rushing horses, the trampling
throng, fire-engines, highwaymen, kidnappers,
and the police. She could not move to save him.
She knew that she must not leave that spot, else
they would take her away as a bad person. The
old negress in front of her rocked and knitted,
crooning to herself, bobbing her yellow-ker-
chiefed head in rhythmic emphasis. Dora fixed
her eyes on the woman, hypnotising herself into
quiet.

For years afterwards that figure haunted
her dreams as an incarnation of terror. Then
suddenly the cloud of horrors that surrounded
her was parted by a swift radiance. Her father

A WINGED VICTORY

was coining toward her across the now nearly
empty waiting-room — ^and he led Peter by the
hand.

For a moment Dora^s soul was possessed by
utter relief and gladness. Then her father's
question recalled the loss of the tangible result
of the expedition. Peter had put his new pos-
sessions at once on his person, but Dora's own
clothes and books, the few trifles that she had
saved from the wreck and was bringing ashore,
were now cast far and wide upon the waters.
In her conflicting emotions she could for the mo-
ment give no coherent explanation to her father,
but the policeman stood forth as her advocate.

" That little girl has set there as good's a
kitten. 'Twan't noways her fault. She went
away a minute to help a lady with a bag and a
lot of kids, and while she was gone the young one
skipped out and someone must have swiped your
bundles."

John Glenn was too much of a sportsman to
scold his daughter. On the contrary, he was
vastly amused at the irony with which circum-
stances had so neatly played her false, and com-
mented on it with much zest on the ride back to
Prairie Grove.

" You see, my dear Dora, in this a proof of the
adage. Virtue is its own reward. I grant that
you had a perfect right to think that while you
were engaged in active philanthropy you could
trust the passive philanthropy of your fellow-
men — that while you were helping one woman
to put her clothes on the train no one would

A WINGED VICTORY

steal your clothes — ^but you see how wrong you
were.'*

**But, papa," Dora interrupted, eager to put
her case on practical grounds, " the woman had
three children."

" You are out of order, my dear Dora. It is
irrelevant how many children the woman may
have had in the past, or how many she may
have in the future. The question before us is
whether, while we are at the front fighting the
battles of the world, we can trust the world not
to attack us in the rear."

" But, papa, the woman "

" You have not the floor, my dear. Before you
can speak you must be recognised, must catch the
speaker's eye, and you haven't caught mine yet,
and you can't so long as you persist in clouding
the debate with details that confuse our view
of the real issue. Does our morality help the
world along by making us fools? I am going to
put the question. Wake up your colleague there,
so that his vote may not be lost. What do you
say, ay or no? "

" I don't know," said Dora wearily.

"Don't know? Can it be that you have no
opinion whatever after this illuminating dis-
cussion founded on your own experience? "

" I didn't understand what you were saying,
papa."

"And you never asked me to explain? Do
you think that it is courteous to maintain out-
wardly an attitude of intelligent interest while
really your mind is in a state of indifference?

A WINGED yiCTORY

Tell me, dear girl, why didn^t you ask me to
pat the matter again so that you might under-
stand? "

"I didn't want to understand," said Dora,
driven to the last ditch.

Glenn laughed. "I would have given any-
thing to have had Hudson hear that. He would
have adored you for it."

And Dora thought that she, too, would give
anything to have Uncle Jack at her side. The
world had never seemed so desolate as on this
murky November night when they drove home
through the fog. Her father's mocking humour
brought her no comfort It seemed to deepen
her cold sense of loneliness. She had lost so
much in the last few days! She hugged Peter
more closely. Of him, at least, she was sure.

CHAPTER IV;

DORA did not let her losses interfere with
her plan of education. The next day she put
Peter on Tony, and they started for the Prairie
Grove school. On the way, between Peter's
tumbles, she tried to prepare him for the ex-
perience.

" Linda has gone to live with Aunt Bella,'*
she explained, "where she will have plenty of
pretty clothes, and go to school, and learn to
play the piano. She will be ashamed of us,
Peter, unless we learn as much as she does, and
know how to behave, and keep our clothes clean.
We are going to the little school in the village
to learn to read and write, and arithmetic.'*

" Peter don't want to go to school," said the
boy. " Peter don't want to read. Peter don't
want to write. Peter only wants frolics."

" Why, Peter Glenn ! " cried Dora, outraged
at such hedonism, "you don't want to be a
stupid, good-for-nothing, low-down, country
boy? "

" Yes, Peter do."

"Well, I shan't let you," said Dora, firmly.

'The schoolhouse was a bare, one-storey build-
ing, separated from the Lutheran Church by a
fence with a single rail. To this Dora tied the
ponies, and then led Peter into the schoolroom.
At first she was a little dazed at the auiuber .of

'A WINGED VICTORY

pupils. A long line of boys and girls was stand-
ing before the teacher's desk, and behind them
two or three times as many were pretending to
study. The teacher was too much distracted
for a time to notice the newcomers, and Dora
stood in the doorway holding Peter by the hand
for fear he might flee. At length the general
shifting of attention to them caught the teacher's
notice, and she went to speak to them.

"I am Dora Glenn, and this is Peter," said
Dora. Her low, clear tone was refreshing to
Miss Peaks' ears, weary of shrill trebles and
heavy gutturals. " We have come to school."

" You want to enter this school?" asked Miss
Peaks, in some surprise.

" Yes, if you will take us," said Dora.

It was nearly recess, so that Miss Peaks dis-
missed her class, and then, after the room had
been cleared with incredible noise, she asked the
children a few questions. Dora could read and
write passably, and had an instinctive knowledge
of numbers, but Peter knew literally nothing.
Dora's cheeks burned under their tan. She had
picked up what she had, she could not have told
how. Why had she never thought of teaching
Peter? At last Miss Peaks put Dora in the sec-
ond class, and Peter in the seventh and lowest.

"But please may I sit beside him?" asked
Dora, anxiously. " He's never been with other
children, and he may get hurt."

And Miss Peaks, thinking of Dora's voice, said
that it could be arranged for the first few days.
Tiieo the school poured in frojn recess^ and the

A WINGED VICTORY

buzzing note of education began again, low at
first, but running up the scale like a siren until
the noon dismissal.

At noon Dora noticed that she and Peter were
objects of curiosity rather than affection to their
school-fellows. The bare-legged, tow-headed
Bicknases, Weywitzers, and Messers phlegmatic-
ally watched them mount their ponies, but one
boy made a rude remark and another threw a
stone. " It's the ponies," she thought, and in the
afternoon she and the reluctant Peter walked to
school.

She saw that if she, and especially Peter, were
to prove fit in the struggle for survival, they
could not be too different from their schoolmates.
As it was, there was a prejudice against them
in the community that showed itself as soon as
the slow Teutonic mind was fully awake to their
presence. A week after they had begun Dora
stayed after school for a minute, and came out
to find Peter in the hands of some larger boys
who were trying to make him walk on his hands.
She sprang into their midst, her brown eyes flash-
ing, her small fists making play like lightning
about Fritlz Weywitzer's face, so that though
he was not ashamed to strike a girl, he had to
fiy before her onslaught. After that her prowess
made her an ally of recognised value in the games
at recess and at the noon hour. But when school
was over for the day she lost no time in getting
Peter started on the two-mile walk to Glenwood.
This always took an hour each way, for Peter
had many wayside interests which were new

A WINGED VICTORY

every morning and fresh every evening. Dora
sometimes wondered how the boy could pursue
the same futile quests with such dog-like hope-
fulness.

Peter's scholastic career was not a success.
He soon ceased, indeed, to resist Dora's efforts
to get him to school. The habit once formed, he
went with docile regularity, and sat with patient
self-possession, but of any gain in mental activ-
ity he showed no trace. He would listen, look,
and sometimes answer a question in imitation
of another child, but he would learn nothing.
He had kept a baby habit of speaking of himself
in the third person, and "Peter don't know,"
was his usual response. At such times the chil-
dren laughed. Miss Peaks frowned, and Dora
whispered urgently, " Say * I,' Peter ; '' to which
he always replied, " Peter can't." It seemed im-
possible to make him identify himself with his
own mind, or feel any responsibility for its va-
garies. Dora was bitterly mortified at these
lapses, and at Peter's cheerfulness in the face
of them. She gave most of her time in school
to overlooking his lessons, and at home to re-
viewing them. She refused to admit that he was
stupid. He could tell his snakes apart well
enough, and give the details of the capture of
each — ^and there were sixteen of them. Then
why could he not learn to know his letters?
Dora decided that it was because he was not in-
terested in them, and forthwith she began to
invent a little story for each one.

" A is for arrow," she told Peter. " See, it

A WINGED VICTORY

looks just like an arrow-head. An Indian boy
dug it out of the rock and made it sharp and
smooth. Then he fixed it to a straight stick and
he had an arrow, with a sharp point like this —
A. Then he took another stick of ash and made
a bow of it B, that's the bow. It's broken in
the middle, but that happened later. And then
one night, when his father and mother were
asleep, he went out of his wigwam (W is for
wigwam, turned upside-down, but we'll come to
that later) — ^he went out with his bow and arrow
and sneaked into the woods. And he hadn't
gone very far before he saw a pair of great fierce
eyes looking at him out of a tree (T is for tree.
There is the trunk, and the branches), and he
bent his bow (B is bow), and shot the arrow
(A is the sharp arrow-head), and he hit just
between the eyes so that the animal fell out of
the tree. And it was a coon. C is for coon.
When you turn it up so — o— it looks like the
back of a coon asleep." And so on, with Dogs,
Foxes, and Gorillas, until at I the Indian him-
self entered the tale, with feathers on him to
give him character ; and then on through further
adventures with Lynxes, Muskrats, Snakes, and
Trees until the hero returned to his overturned
Wigwam.

In course of time Peter learned this story by
heart, and thenceforth could command his let-
ters after a fashion. He and Dora looked forward
to a certain proud day in the future, when he
should go to Miss Peaks and offer to put them
all on the blackboard. This day was hastened by

A WINGED VICTORY

some cutting remarks about Peter's backward-
ness made by one of the smallest Weywitzers.

" Peter ain't goin' to stand it, Dode," he fumed.
"Peter c'n say 'em all, the whole lot, from
Arrow to Zebedee. He'll show 'em."

So Peter's challenge was delivered, a little
prematurely, Dora feared.

" You must remember, Peter," she told him,
" to say all that about the Indian to yourself, or
just think it, and put down the letters as if you
knew •'em all out of your own head."

But as Peter advanced in his trial his sotto
voce grew louder, until lessons were interrupted,
and the whole school followed with breathless
interest as he put down the signs like so many
mile-stones in the life-journey of Zebedee, the
Indian. Dora had cautioned him also against
yielding too far to the special idiosyncrasies of
certain letters, but Peter forgot himself in the
ardour of the chase, and, to Dora's horror, C
appeared on its stomach, more like a sleeping
coon than she had ever dared to let it be, I had
a forest of feathers on its head, and S stuck its
tongue out of its mouth in a way to frighten
small children forever away from the further end
of the alphabet. But Peter came through safely,
to " And the name of this Indian was Zebedee.
Z is for Zebedee. There is his mark, n." And
Dora was too proud of him to mind minor slips.

Besides this academic triumph, Peter's story,
of which he was believed to be the author, won
a popular success. It was called for again that
afternoon by the whole school as a reward of

A WINGED VICTORY

merit; and for many days thereafter Peter was
induced to repeat it on the playground at recess.
There were subsidiary stories also, one a charm-
ing little tale of mystification, involving the
Tree, the Arrow, and the Coon, which turned out
to be a harmless, necessary Cat, but these never
touched the popular heart as did the somewhat
lumbering epic of the entire alphabet. Unfor-
tunately, Peter lost sight of the true end of his
striving in his craving for popular applause. He
learned his stories only to repeat them. . And
unfortunately, also, he pushed his public too
hard. He expected to tell his tales daily, and
when his audience dwindled to a few of the
youngest children he showed openly his disgust.
At last even these took to calling him Zebedee
in derision, and the ambition which had flamed
brightly for a few weeks died down to ashes.

A new tale on epic lines which involved as
characters the numbers and their relations
tempted Peter just a little, and he set out upon
it; but it soon proved too abstract and meta-
physical, and his scent, made keen by experience,
winded failure.

" They won't stand for 'em,'' he said. " I hate
'em myself. They don't mean nothin'."

This was after a year of school, and Peter had
come to a realisation of his own identity so far
as to use the first personal pronoun in conversa-
tion, but he was uncertain as to the precise limits
between himself and Zebedee, the other I.

" 5 doesn't look like a fairy prince," he went
on, "nor 7 like a sleeping princess, 'nd who

A WINGED VICTORY

cares if they aref ^Nd I don't see that they have
to have 35 children. It looks like too many."

"Oh, Peter, Peter," sighed Dora, "it seems
sometimes as if you were stupid. Of course, they
have to have children. They increase and mul-
tiply, and seven times five is thirty-five. They
couldn't have more or less."

In spite of this discouragement, Dora kept up
the fight. Her outlook had been entirely altered
by her experience at school : learning had become
to her the great force in life, and Miss Peaks,
the wielder and dispenser of this power, was
the greatest magician. - Linda wrote once in a
while about her own fashionable school, and her
companions, dresses, parties, and social tri-
umphs. Dora's heart swelled with pride, but
there was no envy mixed with it. For herself,
she wanted to know as much as Miss Peaks,
and to help others to know. That was the loftiest
sphere for her. But for Peter — ^ah, that was dif-
ferent Miss Peaks used to draw books from
the library in Eggleston, and when she came
to know Dora's ardent spirit, she lent them to
her as regularly as she got them. She was a
great reader of biography, and Dora followed her
through " Famous Boys and How They Became
Men," and the lives of the martyred Presidents.
In these meretricious accounts she found much
to remind her of Peter, and much to inspire her
in looking toward his future. Peter should go
to college. Peter should become a professor or
a lawyer, and in course of time he would natu-
rally be called to sway the destinies of his coun-

A WINGED VICTORY

try. She shared these brilliant visions with
Peter himself, and he was dazzled. The picture
of himself, being nominated for President, while
representatives of all the states of the Union
massed their banners about him, was particu-
larly alluring to his fancy. When the connection
between that scene and his special lessons for
the night was fresh in his mind, he would sit and
work with might and main; but in a little
while his mind would lose its tension, and he
would forget why he had to study so hard. If his
sister were watching to catch his wavering glance
and fix his wandering mind anew on its task,
he would go on for another half hour; but if
poor Dora had let herself become absorbed in
her own work, he would draw away from the
table, as stealthily and silently as an Indian,
and whatever the weather, he would make off
into the night. Dora would sometimes follow
him calling, begging him to come back, but he
never came until the light was out in the dining-
room, which Dora had made into a study. But
soon after Dora was in bed she would feel his
face against hers, and hear his soft little voice
at her ear.

" Peter couldn't help it, sister. Really, Peter's
head ached so. Don't be angry with poor Peter.
Throw water on Peter in the morning, and make
him get up and study it then."

And Dora would kiss and forgive.

CHAPTER V

WHEN Dora was ready to graduate from
the highest class in the country school
Peter was still in the lowest. Clearly his feet
were not yet so firmly grounded in the faith that
he could be trusted to walk alone, and Dora was
obliged to go ta Miss Peaks and beg to be kept
back a year.

" But Dora/' said the teacher, " you must think
of yourself. You ought to go to a high school
next year. You have done a great deal for Peter
already, and simply ought not to sacrifice your-
self for him any longer.^'

But Dora was urgent; and Miss Peaks was
proof no more than on the first day against the
note of pleading in Dora's even voice. In the
end it was arranged that Dora should defer her
graduation for a year, and meanwhile should
assist in teaching the younger children, in return
receiving lessons in Algebra, Latin, and other
high school subjects. The arrangement worked
well. Miss Peaks got Peter to understand that
Dora was sacrificing something very precious
for the sake of being with him, and thereafter
hig docility became complete. Never again did
he flee from his lessons. He lost his fondness
for out-of-doors, his keenness of interest in all
the sights and sounds and odours of the woods
and fields. His pets died or ran away, and they
were not replaced. He seemed to have become

A WINGED VICTORY

thoroughly imbued with his sister^s spirit^ and
would sit for hours motionless over his books.
True, his progress was not much accelerated by
his industry, and Dora was at times more dis-
couraged than she dared own to herself. She
had been able to explain his backwardness at
first by lack of interest — ^but now?

At the end of this supplementary year Miss
Peaks had taught Dora all that she herself knew,
and her conscience was restless. To forestall
further temptation she wrote to John Glenn, tell-
ing him of Dora^s progress and urging him to
send her to the high school at Eggleston. Dora
saw the letter arrive at Qlenwood, and knowing
Miss Peaks^ hand, she was pretty sure of its
contents. During the three days which elapsed
before her father made them a visit, she was
frequently tempted to make away with it.

" Papa doesn't care what I do,'' she insisted
to herself. "It will only save him trouble if
I tear it up."

It was with a fine sense of honour that she
handed it to her father one day at breakfast.

" What have we here? " he said, as he scanned
the neat pages. " An unsolicited tribute to my
daughter's scholarship. She should go in quest
of further honours to the Eggleston High School.
Very good. She could have gone a year ago but
for devotion to little brother? What's this,
Dora? "

" I didn't wish to go a year ago," said Dora,
with some dignity, " I was too young."

" How old are you now? "

A WINGED VICTORY

"Tm fifteen."

"Well, you shall certainly take your degree
from Prairie Oroide this summer, and next fall
go to Eggleston."

" But, father, I don't want to graduate this
year. I — I haven't any white dress.''

" I'll attend to that," said Glenn. " And now,
my dear girl, you must see that you can't forever
stay behind for Peter — poor little chap. You
have been the best of sisters to him, but you can't
give up your own future to his. He will have
to shift for himself so far as he can, and you '^

" But, father," Dora broke in, " girls can't do
much anyway, but boys, Peter — I want him to
go to college like Garfield did," she ended.

"Poor little Dora," said her father, gently.
" Do you think Peter is the stuff to make a Presi-
dent of? But never mind that. I couldn't afford
to send Peter to college, even if he were a genius."

" No, but, father, he can work then, when he's
big, and I can. We'll do without Maggie, and
save her wages. And it doesn't cost much. Gar-
field didn't have any money, and not even a sister
to help him, but he got through."

" Well, well," said Glenn, " perhaps our luck
will turn by then. Just now we're going to the
bad fast enough. However, your best way of
helping Peter is to help yourself."

These words made a deep impression on Dora's
mind, and she decided that if Peter could be
hauled by main strength into the next class, she
would go to Eggleston in the fall. She spoke of
this decision to Miss Peaks, who looked grave.

A WINGED VICTORY

" I don't think that Peter ought to study any
harder," she said.

Dora looked at her with puzzled eyes.

" What do you mean? Peter is ten, now, and
he isn't in the sixth class yet. If he gets pro-
moted every time, he will be sixteen when he goes
to high school, and twenty when he is ready for
college."

" Yes," said the teacher, " but I think Peter is
studying too hard now. He seems to be grow-
ing near-sighted, he puts his book so close to his
eyes. And haven't you noticed how he holds his
head over on one side? "

Dora had noticed, and been troubled by these
tendencies in Peter, and others that Miss Peaks
did not know of. She had comforted hefself
by the reflection that all boys had their awkwajfd
age, but now she was decidedly alarmed. That
night, instead of keeping Peter awake at his
work, she sent him to bed early. When she
went upstairs herself she paused at his bedside
and held her candle above his yellow, tousled
head and clear brown cheek.

" He is a beautiful boy," she thought, " and
mine. Mamma gave him to me."

Then, as she looked, the muscles of his face
contracted in a sudden spasm, and his limbs
quivered convulsively. In an instant it had
passed; he was again sleeping peacefully and
Dora could hardly believe that there had been
any change. She spoke to her father, however,
who happened to be at home, and he came to
look at the sleeping child.

A WINGED VICTORY

" I don^t see anything wrong about him — any-
thing different from the ordinary," said Glenn,
" but I'll take him into town to-morrow, and let
Bell look at him."

" Oh, papa, may I go, too? " exclaimed Dora,
" and see Linda? "

" Yes," said her father, " you shall go, cer-
tainly. Bell may want to ask you some ques-
tions."

He said nothing about Linda. The next morn-
ing in the cars Dora timidly returned to the
subject.

" Can't we telephone to Aunt Bella, papa, as
soon as we get to Chicago, and have her give
Linda a holiday, and then, after the doctor's seen
Peter, we could have luncheon together? "

" I don't think so," said Glenn. " You know
that Linda is not ours any more."

" Isn't she my sister? "

"Well, she isn't my daughter. Her Aunt
Bella has adopted her legally."

" But she's still my sister. And I haven't seen
her for three years."

" Nor I, — except once. One of the conditions
of her adoption was that I shouldn't."

" Oh, papa," cried Dora, " how dreadful of
Aunt Bella! Poor Linda "

She remembered that godmothers were some-
times cruel, like stepmothers.

" Linda didn't seem to object," remarked her
father.

" I'm sure it was Aunt Bella, though," said
Dora.

A WINGED VICTORY

In the city her father talked with Dr. Bell over
the telephone. He could not see them until
afternoon.

" Is there anything that you want to buy,
Dora? " asked her father.

She insisted that there was nothing that she
or Peter could possibly need. Then Glenn took
them to a basement oflftce, one corner of which
seemed to belong to him, and kept them there
while he opened a few letters and dictated a reply
or two. The stenographer was known as Gertie.
Dora looked with admiration at her exact figure
in her red waist, her sharp features under her
high-built, flaxen coijBf ure, her flying fingers ; and
considered her a marvel of stylish efl&ciency.
Afterwards when the girl went to her typewriter
and began to bang out the letters, Dora's respect
for her increased. She went over and stood
beside the little desk, and GcrUc seemed glad
to stop and show her about the machine and let
her work the keys a little. Gertie was the queen
bee of the establishment. Whether the men
scolded her or chaffed her Dora wondered at
the ease and self-possession of her bearing, the
keenness and quickness of her replies. They
seemed to be unconscious, like the movements of
her fingers — ^a part of the mechanism of this being
of steel and wire. Dora reflected that this was
the woman to conquer the world, and determined
then and there to become a typewriter.

The other men in the office occasionally
stopped at their comer to fling a joke or two to
Glenn, or to ask Dora how old she was, but

A WINGED VICTORY

Dora shrank from these advances. She did not
yet have the metallic wit of the flaxen lady.
She pretended not to hear, and became absorbed
in a deep conversation with Peter about the ap-
proaching luncheon. She recalled to him the
beautiful room where they had eaten on their
last visit to the city, and what they had had —
pea, soup, roast turkey, lobster salad, and straw-
berry ice cream. There had been a dispute as to
whether the salad should be lobster or chicken,
and Dora and Peter decided that this time they
should give their votes for lobster again.

Their father, however, took them, not to the
beautiful room, painted to look like a vineyard,
where well-dressed, quiet people came, but to a
long dark place, full of noisy men. Instead of
being served by refined coloured gentlemen in
immaculate dress clothes, they shared with a
dozen others the spasmodic attentions of a wait-
ress whom everybody citUed Dolly. After the
first keen thrust of disappointment, Dora re-
fiected that they had grown poorer in the last
three years ; and following that thought, she fixed
her eyes upon Dolly as upon another girl who
earned money and fought her own way. Dolly
had a body made supple by much dodging with
heavy trays through swinging doors and around
comers, where collisions were avoided only by
extreme address. Her face was perpetually
abloom with blushes at remarks which she could
not misunderstand and had no time to reply to.
Four or five of the men at the table were talking
politics, but the rest persistently discussed

A WINGED yiCTORY

Dolly, and her supposed whereabouts and doings
of the night before. The distracted waitress
showed special zeal in bringing Dora and Peter
their soup and comed-beef hash promptly,
whereat a type of middle-aged gallantry oppo-
site made much merriment.

"Nobody can get anything out of Dolly to-
day but Glenn," he called out. " He's on exhi-
bition. How do you like your family, Dolly?
Great thing to get your kids ready-made."

Dora did not fully understand the jokes, but
she could not help seeing that these men, like
those at the office, treated her father very dis-
respectfully.

" Oh, now, Mr. Bray,'* protested Dolly, hov-
ering over Dora with the strawberry short-
cake.

" Look here, little girl," said the heavy joker
across the table, "how would you like Dolly
for a stepmother? "

The blood rushed to Dora's dark cheeks, and
her eyes flashed.

" Cut that out. Bray," cried Glenn.

Dora wondered why he did not knock the man
down.

" Oh, take it easy," returned the other. " You
know everybody at this table's promised to marry
Dolly, and somebody's got to make good pretty
soon, else we'll all be in for a breach of prom-
ise."

" She won't take Glenn," remarked someone.
"Dolly don't want no damaged goods."

This brought a laugh, in which Glenn joined.

A WINGED VICTORY

Dora was aflame with indignation. Why did
her father let these vulgar fellows make sport of
him? But the next instant her anger curdled
into shame. As her father rose he stood for a
moment beside the waitress, who was pulling
Peter's chair back, and put his arm about her.

a We're a fine couple, anyhow," he said.

The table roared at this, and Dora, her head
low, took Peter by the hand and followed her
father toward the door.

They trailed across the city to Doctor BelPs
office, and spent a dismal hour in his waiting-
room among a dozen derelicts of humanity. The
doctor was late, they said — ^an important opera-
tion. At last he came in, slender and youthful,
in spite of his iron grey hair. He had been one
of her father's friends in the old days, and Dora
remembered him as a frequent visitor at Glen-
wood. Now she could not fail to contrast his
vigorous, buoyant person with John Glenn's dis-
couraged presence. She had been angry with
her father once that day. Now she was only
terribly sorry.

Doctor Bell received them kindly, but kept
them waiting while he saw several patients who
had earlier appointments. As each one vanished
behind the ground-glass doors, whence no sound
came, Dora's agitation grew. What would they
do to Peter in there? Would they let her go in,
too? When the time came the doctor motioned
her back, as she would have followed, and she
sat, her cold little hands clasped tightly about
her knee, staring fiercely at the pictures in an

A WINGED VICTORY

old Harper^s. At last her father came for her,
and she too passed the door. Peter was lying on
a sofa, his eyes unusually large and bright. He
gave a weak little cry as Dora entered, and she
ran to him and put her arms about him.

'^Doctor Bell wants to ask you a few ques-
tions, Dora," said her father, very gently; and
Dora stood up to answer.

The doctor asked first about Peter's interests
and aptitudes, about his diflftculties with words
and with ideas, about the time when he began to
grow nearsighted and crooked-necked. After-
wards he went to his desk and wrote for a few
minutes. Then he beckoned to Dora.

"Your father tells me that you are very
ambitious for your little brother," he said.

" Yes, sir," said Dora.

" You have taught him to read and to write? "

" Yes, sir, — Miss Peaks and I."

" Well, now we must let him forget all that
for a time. He has been working his brain too
hard. He must have a rest for a few months
— ^perhaps until Christmas. Then I hope that
he will be all right again. But don't worry about
his studies. Those will come later. Just now —
well, we must turn him out to grass for a time.
Do you understand? "

" Yes, sir," said Dora again.

She was utterly heartsick. She knew that six
months would mean the shattering of Peter's
intellectual life, the foundations of which had
been laid with such infinite labour and pain
for both of them. Then she recalled the image

A WINGED VICTORY

of the boy, bent sidewise over his book or slate,
his eyes following his finger from word to word
or figure to figure. She knew that somehow she
had been wrong, and that she and Peter must
pay the penalty between them. The tears
blinded her as she fixed her eyes on the doctor's
glasses and tried to remember exactly what he
was saying to her. When he had finished she
could not speak. Silently she took Peter's hand
and led him away.

CHAPTER VI

IN the antumn John Glenn insisted that Dora
should go to the high school at Eggleston ; and
as it was five miles from Qlenwood, he gave her
the only horse that now inhabited his stables^
on which to ride to and fro. Peter was always
at the gate in the morning to cheer her off, and
always watching at the same place for her re-
turn. Between times he amused himself with
childish games, but his interest in the world of
education persisted, though it supported itself
vicariously on Dora's experience. He inquired
each day minutely what she had done. One day
when Dora told him that she had solved an
original proposition in geometry that no one else
in the class could do, he made her draw the figure
on his slate and repeat the process.

"And did you put all those figures on the
blackboard? " he asked, " and say all that story
about CD. and F.G. and M.N. and Q.E.D.?
Did they like it as well as they did my story
about Zebedee? ^■

Their old positions were reversed. Now Peter
sat patiently while Dora thumbed the dictionary,
and he listened to every paragraph of Caesar or
Cornelius Nepos as she worked it out.

" Are you going to say that story to them to-
morrow?" he would ask, wistfully. "Do you
think they'll like it? ''

A WINGED VICTORY

He was infinitely proud when Dora did well,
and stood at the head ; and her chief sorrow in
missing a question was Peter^s disappointment
when he should hear of the failure.

" Did you say that the Battle of the Raisin
was in 1812? And was that wrong? Oh, Dora,
I should think you'd have known that that would
be wrong."

He asked much about Dora's schoolmates also,
but Dora could tell him little of them except
their names. Since she arrived from her long
ride just as school began, and left promptly to
return to Peter, she had no time for society.
Moreover, used as she was to primitive relations
with the Weywitzers and Bicknases, she was a
little ill-at-ease among the youth of Eggleston.
But Peter was so manifestly discontented with
the absence of the human element in her expe-
rience that she forced herself to thicken the plot
a little in this direction.

There was a boy in her class who, like herself,
rode to school and kept his horse in the stall
beside hers in MacAdoo's stable. His name was
Leverett Raymond. He appealed to her because
he was diflferent, and apart from the other boys
at school ; and at first she was a little sorry for
him until she saw that his isolation was really
due to a streak of snobbishness. He was rather
good to look at : a type of sullen, boyish beauty,
with dark eyes upon which the shadow of long
lashes and heavy brows rested like a perpetual
cloud, a straight, thin nose, and a mouth which
would have been delicately curved but for the

A WINGED VICTORY

upward pressure of an emphatic chin. His man-
ners too, by their very ease, seemed to convey
something of contempt. His classmates stood
in awe of him, and they disliked him. He hated
the Eggleston school, and said so openly. '

He and Dora occasionally met on their arrival
at the stable. The first time he offered to help
her dismount, but she rather brusquely declined
and flung herself off, boy-fashion. After that
he was not pressing in his attentions, and as
Peter clamoured for the human interest, Dora
was sorrv that she had rebuffed the lad. She
really liked him and wanted to talk to him, but
her country life had made her shy.

One day a little girl named Mabel Scott, who
had been friendly, asked her to stay to see the
football practice. Dora found Leverett Ray-
mond the star of the team. He had played at
an Eastern school, and was really teaching the
game to the others. She liked him most of all
that afternoon; his square shoulders, his bright
teeth, his scowling brow and sulky eyes, and his
commanding voice appealed to her with a kind of
attraction that she did not like to define to her-
self. After watching him for a few minutes,
however, she hurried away to carry his reward
to Peter, patiently hugging his gatepost, an hour
over-time.

After that, Peter never failed to ask about
Leverett Raymond, and Dora found herself ob-
serving him closely in school and at recess,
taking note of his failures in class and his
prowess in games. Peter regularly inquired

A WINGED VICTORY

what questions the teacher asked him^ and his
disappointment at Leverett^s frequent failures
and punishments was almost as keen as if Dora
herself had been concerned. To compensate him
she took to making up little stories about Lev-
erett's life based on such facts about him as she
gathered from the others. She knew that his
father was a merchant in Chicago, and that their
estate in Eggleston was a famous country place.
Beyond this she furnished him, for Peter's en-
tertainment, with a mother, two aunts, a grand-
mother, and a little sister to whom he was very
good. This dream-child, who was called Philippa,
became to Peter the most intimate of his friends
except Dora herself. Of Leverett he, like most
people, was always a little afraid.

For some time after the morning when Lev-
erett had offered her his help, Dora had no words
from him. If he arrived at the same time as she
did, he bowed and waited for her to move on,
meanwhile smoking a cigarette with the stable-
men.

He always stayed after school for football.
One afternoon, however, as she walked toward
MacAdoo's livery, she heard him striding along
behind her. She knew why he was going home
early. The election of a captain for the eleven
had taken place that day at recess, and Leverett
had been unanimously defeated. Dora was very
sorry for him, and still sorrier, when she heard
him coming, that he was showing his disappoint-
ment in this unworthy fashion. He half passed
her, raising his cap, then hesitated, and as she

A WINGED VICTORY

hazarded a " Qood-af temoon," he fell into step
beside her.

" You're not playing football? '' she said.

He looked at her sharply from under his tum-
bled hair.

" No/' he answered, " I'd rather take a ride
with you."

"You know that isn't true," said Dora, di-
rectly. "You'd rather play football, and you
ought to be playing. We're going to meet Ar-
lington next week, and without you we haven't
any chance to win."

" Well," he said, " what of it? Suppose I don't
choose to coach a lot of ungrateful muckers?
Suppose I'd rather go riding with the prettiest
girl in the school? Will you go with me?"

Dora was half repelled by the boldness of his
speech and eyes.

" No," she said. " I can't."

He did not speak again, and Dora grew sorry.
She liked him more in spite of everything, and
this feeling slowly overcame her shyness.

" I'd like to," she added, " but I have to go
home, and you ought to stay and play football."

"Why ought I?"

"Well," said Dora, "if you don't you'll feel
bad about it. I think it was low down not to
elect you captain, when you've really taught
them how to play, but the only way for you to
take it is to go in and play better than ever —
play so hard that it will get all the mean feeling
out of you, and you'll be glad that John Fitz-
gerald is captain instead of you. Oh, I wish I

A WINGED VICTORY

were a boy in your place — that's such a splendid
thing to do ! "

Her cheeks were bright under their brown,
and her eyes beneath their long lashes were
sparkling. The boy looked at her with new
enthusiasm.

" By Jove, Dora, you're dead right," he said.
^^ It takes a girl to see those things, and a dam
good one to tell a fellow about them straight.
I'll go back and get into that practice. But won't
you shake hands? "

Dora's eyes, a little startled, met his bold ones,
and her slim little paw was squeezed in his for
an instant. Then they were going their separate
ways as fast as possible.

That night Peter had his true story of the day ;
but when he wanted to slide over into the fiction
that was gathering about Leverett, Dora re-
fused.

"Now that we know him a little," she said,
" it wouldn't be nice to keep up all that make-
believe about him."

So Peter was, on the whole, disappointed, es-
pecially as Dora had not stayed to see whether
Leverett outplayed all the others.

The next day, for the first time, Dora heard
people saying good things about Leverett Ray-
mond. He had acted mighty white in the foot-
ball matter, and it was, after all, a shame that
he had been kept out of the captaincy by a put-up
job. Dora could hardly keep the joy out of her
eyes.

The day after, on her arrival at MacAdoo's

A WINGED VICTORY

livery, she found Leverett waiting for her, and
they walked to school together.

" Say, Dora," he said, as soon as they had
started, " that was great stuff you gave me the
other day. I should have made an awful ass
of myself. How did you happen to see it all
that way? "

"Why," said Dora, "I think that everyone's
got to take what comes and make the best of
it, and get all there is out of it. You have a
chance to get a great deal more out of football
by winning all the games for them than if they
had made you captain. And if you didn't play
what would you do with yourself? "

" That's so," he exclaimed ; " I don't care for
anything in this rotten school but football."

" It isn't a rotten school," cried Dora, indig-
nantly. ^>And there's a lot in it besides foot-
ball, if you'd take the trouble to be interested."

" I beg your pardon," said the boy, stiffly. " I
didn't mean to call any school rotten that has
a girl like you in it ; but if your father had taken
you out of Exeter, where the fellows are gentle-
men, and put you into a beastly public high
school where the boys are all muckers and there
are girls, too, I guess you wouldn't bother much
about being interested. I hate the place," he
ended, passionately.

"Why did your father take you out of Exe-
ter? " asked Dora, sympathetically.

" Oh, they fired me, but he could have let me
go to Andover or Lawrenceville."

Dora looked at him with mingled shrinking

A WINGED VICTORY

and attraction. Peter would be keen to know
why he had been expelled, but it seemed indeli-
cate to ask. At last, in hesitating accents, she
wondered what the mystery was in his past, and
was promptly, even brazenly, answered.

" Oh, a lot of us got jagged in Boston the night
after the Andover Meet.'^

Dora gave a gasp of disgust, of which the
hardened youth was unconscious.

" They^d have fixed it up though, I guess, so
that I could have gone some place else, if my
govemor'd been willing; but he hiked straight
up to Exeter after me and snaked me home, and
now they're all living in the country this year
so that I can be kept out of temptation. I tell
you it makes a fellow feel cheap.''

" I should think it ought to," said Dora. ** And
you dare talk about the boys at school being
muckers! I am awfully disappointed in you."

" You're disappointed in me? " he caught her
up. " Did you think I was a good boy?"

Dora did not reply.

"Tell me why you are disappointed in me,"
he insisted.

" Well," said Dora, " I have been telling my
little brother about you, and when you said that
you had been expelled from Exeter, I thought it
might be something jolly, like ^ Tom Brown's
School Days ' — not anything perfectly disgust-
ing and nasty. I can't tell him that you got
drunk."

"No," said Leverett, slowly, "you can't tell
him that."

A WINGED VICTORY

They walked on in silence until they reached
the schoolhouse.

" Oh, say," began Leverett, " I wanted to ask
you to come to the game next Saturday. We're
to play at Arlington, you know, and the whole
school's going along.''

" I wish I could, but I ought to stay with my
little brother. He can't go to school, and he's
very lonely."

" Oh, shucks," persisted Leverett, ** you got me
into it, and at least you ought to come and see
the game."

"Well, I'll see about it," responded Dora,
coolly.

She was not sure now whether she liked Lev-
erett or not, whether she cared a straw for his
winning or losing. And all Leverett's coaxing,
renewed day by day, was not able to bring her
to consent.

On Saturday, however, it occurred to her that
she ought to see the game on Peter's account,
and in spite of his misgivings she persuaded him
to let her go. She felt, indeed, that she could
not stay at home. The cloudy November day,
shot with sunbeams, the broken sky arching
broadly over the brown prairie, the iron-bound
road, the blithe wind piping in the trees or fid-
dling among the fro2jen cornstalks, all called
to her. She was avid for out-of-doors, and her
horse, and the sight of the heroes in their
struggle.

Dora galloped over to Eggleston, and arrived
at the schoolhouse yard, her dark face glowing

A WINGED VICTORY

like an oakleaf in autumn. From her sad-
dle she surveyed the scene, — the band play-
ing furiously to keep itself warm, the six great
waggons decorated with Eggleston's colours, the
throng of shouting boys and girls. The team was
about to start, but Leverett Raymond came to
her side.

" It was bully of you to come," he said. " You
don't know how it will put the stuff into us.
We've got to win now. Say, Dora, put up your
horse, and go with the rest in the barge. We're
all coming back together, you know."

Dora had intended to ride, but the enthusiasm
of the crowd was contagious. She left her horse
and joined Mabel Scott in one of the waggons.

At the field the Eggleston supporters sat to-
gether and cheered their team, especially Lev-
erett Raymond. The sun came out and shone on
their banners, and the air seemed sensibly ani-
mating as it vibrated to the strains of " The
Stars and Stripes Forever " and " King Cotton
March."

Dora had never felt herself so much a part
of the world before, sharing so intimately the
hopes and joys of others, and she thought that
she had never been so happy.

The first half ended with Leverett's making a
run through a broken field for the only touch-
down yet scored. Dora's heart almost stopped
with fear lest he should drop the ball, and when
he landed it safely behind the posts she was too
breathless to cheer. It would be such a good
tale to tell Peter !

A WINGED VICTORY

** Leverett meaDS to earn that supper that he's
going to give us,'' said Mabel Scott, at her ear.

" What supper? " asked Dora, innocently.

"Oh, I supposed you'd know about it," re-
joined Mabel, with intention. " He's going to
give the team a supper at the Arlington House
if they win, and have just as many girls as boys."

" He hasn't asked me," said Dora.

" Oh, well, he's keeping it as a surprise for you,
I guess. Of course you're on the list."

Dora was a little hurt. What right had Lev-
erett to keep a secret from her that everyone else
knew, and to count on her acceptance of his plan
at the last moment? Anyway, she would have
to go home at once to Peter. As soon as the
struggle was over, and the crowd surged out on
the dusky field, she started to join the returning
Egglestonians, but Mabel Scott seized her hand.

" You shan't go, Dora," she said. " Of course
Leverett wants to have you there."

At that moment Leverett himself appeared,
with the marks of his valour upon him in sweat,
dirt, and blood. Her heart went out to him.
She wanted to sponge his face, and do something
to his swollen, bleeding lip. But in answer to
his eager invitation, she said :

" I can't possibly stay now J'

"But I couldn't ask you before, Dora, be-
cause I was afraid that would hoodoo us, and
make us lose," explained Leverett, hotly.

" You asked the other girls," said Dora, feel-
ing ashamed of herself.

"Oh, the other girls. Who cares shucks

A WINGED VICTORY

whether they're fed or not. But you — Dora —
don't you see, if I'd asked you — ^because I
thought of it all for you, and we won for you."

Who could resist his eyes, glowing smokily
behind his tangled mane? Dora went over to the
Arlington House with the other girls. They
waited about for an hour until the team ap-
peared, every boy of them shining clean, and
with bruises and cuts neatly done up by a local
medical man. Then they feasted on scalloped
oysters and roast turkey, and some of the boys
smoked, to show that training was over. There
was not much gaiety — the situation was too un-
usual for the girls, and the boys were too tired.
Dora sat beside Leverett and tried to cheer him
with such anecdote as she could muster, but he
seemed uncertain and preoccupied. After din-
ner one of the girls sang " In the gloaming, oh,
my darling," and "Over the banister leans a
face," and they all joined in "My Bonny lies
over the ocean," and "There's a Tavern in the
town." Leverett and Dora sat apart from the
singing, Dora because she did not know the songs,
Leverett because he was bored. Suddenly he
got up.

" Come along, Dora," he whispered, " let's get
out of this. I can't stand it another second. I've
got a buggy, and I'm going to drive you back to
Prairie Grove, and we'll leave this fool gang to
go home when they're ready."

" But you can't leave," said Dora, " after
you've invited them."

" I can't stay either," groaned Leverett. " They

A WINGED VICTORY

make me sick. Come on, Dora, please be a good
fellow, and let's cut it."

"FU tell them that I have to go home, and
perhaps that will start them," said Dora.
" They're all tired."

A song was just over. She jumped up quickly
and spoke to Mabel Scott.

" Of course you're tired waiting," said Mabel,
sympathetically. "But isn't he going to take
you home in a buggy? "

" Of course not. I'm going with the rest in
the barge."

Mabel spoke to John Fitzgerald, who promptly
called for three cheers for Leverett Raymond — a
proceeding which did not tend to lighten the
cloud on that hero's brow.

As they crowded into the long barge, Dora
kept close to Mabel Scott; but when Leverett
climbed in behind them, Mabel herself moved
away to make room for him, remarking that two
girls couldn't sit together.

The ride began with a continuation of the
songs, but after they were beyond the occasional
interruption of the town lights, the music be-
came intermittent, and finally stopped. Once
someone lighted a match, and in its sudden glare
were revealed boys with their heads on girls'
shoulders, girls sitting in boys' laps, everywhere
arms twining, faces meeting. Nobody was dis-
turbed by the revelation, but one boy called out :

" Leverett Raymond 'nd Dora Glenn are sitting
as if they'd never been introduced. Hey, there,
get busy, Ray."

A WINGED VICTORY

Dora knew that the match had been lighted for
their benefit, and disgusted and embarrassed as
she was, she could feel very sorry for Leverett.
She knew now why he had been so bored all the
evening, why he had proposed the buggy. She
wished that she had trusted to his judgment, and
had no thought but to tell him so.

" I see now why you wanted to drive me home,"
she said. " And I^m sorry I didn't let you."

"Oh, ho," said Leverett, "you see, now that
it's too late. I'll get a rig in Eggleston, and
drive you the rest of the way."

" That won't be necessary, for I've my horse
in Eggleston," said Dora.

" We can tie her behind," said Leverett. " Any-
way, let's make the best of it."

Dora felt something on her shoulder, an arm,
that slipped down to her waist. She edged away
a little; the arm remained there, passive, and
she let it stay. Another match was struck, and
the voice called out :

" Leverett Raymond's got his arm 'round Dora
Qlenn. You're doin' fine, Ray."

Dora was cold with horror, — ^and yet she re-
flected that he had probably judged this sacrifice
to convention necessary. To relieve the situation
she b^an to talk very fast about the game.

" It was awfully good of you to have a doctor
to look after the boys," she said, " but you should
have let us girls do that. We would have washed
your faces and bound up your wounds."

" Would you? " said Leverett. " What would
you have done to my lip? "

A WINGED VICTORY

"I'd have put some witch hazel on it," said
Dora. " Does it hurt very much? "

" Would you have done this to it? ''

His arm held her tight, and his mouth was
pressed to her own. A third match exploded.
She looked into his eyes, blazing up into hers
with something in them that she had never seen
before, something to which she felt herself re-
spond with a feeling that she barely recognised
as exultation before it was followed by swift
anger. The voice cried :

"Leverett Raymond's kissed Dora Glenn.
Hooray ! "

Leverett had seen the change in her face, for
now his voice was at her ear, penitent and
pleading.

" I couldn't help it, Dora. I couldn't, really.
And I thought that you — expected it, — ^sort of,
— ^you know."

At the word her anger found utterance, — ^anger
at him, but more at herself, for her stupid co-
quetry, and for her involuntary thrill of shame-
ful joy. Her voice was so cold and hard that
she scarcely knew it for her own.

" Please stop the barge, and let me get out.
I'm going to ride outside with the driver."

" Oh, no, Dora," pleaded the boy. " Don't do
that. I'll promise not to touch you again."

" You must stop the barge, or I'll get out while
it's moving, and walk the rest of the way to
Eggleston."

Leverett raised his voice!

A WINGED VICTORY

" Say, there, driver, stop a minute. We're
going to get out."

There was a chorus of jeers from the others.
Leverett got out before her and helped her down
the steps.

" Let us walk back together," he said. " Please,
Dora, — in the starlight? "

Dora wanted to relent, but she could not. She
swung herself up over the wheel to the seat beside
the driver.

" All right, let her go," said Leverett.

" No, wait till he gets in," said Dora.

" You'll wait till morning, then," said Lev-
erett, bitteriy.

The waggon started heavily ; there were shouts
and laughter from those within. Peering back-
ward, Dora saw Leverett standing, a dark and
humiliated figure in the dim roadway, over-
whelmed in the hour of his triumph with the
jibes of his comrades. Her anger melted. She
had brought this upon him. She would have
been glad to take his place there; but she could
only turn her face away, and leave him to the
furies that make of every boy at some time a
pathetic parody of Orestes.

CHAPTER yil

DORA forgave Leverett in her heart before she
slept, but she waited in vain for an oppor-
tunity to let him see that it was so. She hoped
that he would speak to her on Monday, but he
did not cross her path. She thought that the
little world of school must bring them together,
but day after day he kept his distance from that
world, more contemptuously aloof than ever. To
Peter's eager inquiries she could at first make
no response : then she yielded, and Leverett Ray-
mond became again a character of fiction.

In these days of early winter, Dora had more
practical troubles to grapple with. Their life
at Glenwood was more disorganised than ever.
She realised that her father owed money in the
village. The unpaid servants, mad Maggie and
drunken Henry, were in tacit revolt. Often she
returned from Eggleston to find Peter foodless;
and it was a regular thing for her to have to un-
saddle Pansy, and even to rub her down. The
question of getting money for her future educa-
tion and Peter's was constantly on her mind,
especially now that Peter was nearly able to
go back to school again.

She was thinking of this one morning as she
rode to Prairie Grove to negotiate with Klein,
of the general store, for another peck of potatoes.
It was the first day of the Christmas vacation.

A WINGED VICTORY

The cold had come early that winter, with little
snow^ and the road rang like iron to her horse's
hoofs. As she rounded the lake she saw the
ice-cutters beginning their harvest. There were
more of them than ever before, for the ice-houses
had lately been bought up by the trust which
had imported seventy or eighty hands from the
city. They were a rough lot, the scum which the
hardship of winter had brought to the surface
of the unskilled labour market, and Dora had
been warned that their presence was an element
of danger in the peaceful neighbourhood.

The local superintendent had been left in
charge of the plant, and him Dora met this morn-
ing in front of Klein's store. Max Hoef t had once
worked at Glenwood; Dora remembered him as
Max, and liked him for his broad, cheerful face,
and his smile. Now, Mr. Hoeft was the social
leader of the village, as well as its most promi-
nent man of affairs, and Dora was somehow
aware that his gallantry in assisting her to dis-
mount was remarked by the loafers sitting about
Klein's stove.

Hoeft, it seemed, also had business in the shop ;
and as Klein came forward, Dora said :

*< I'll wait till you're through, Mr. Hoeft. You
must be a busy man these days."

"Well, thank you. Miss Glenn," said Hoeft,
and to Klein : " I only come in to see if your
sister wanted that job of keeping the tally and
banging the machine over t' the ice-house al-
ready.'^
"I don't know if she can," responded Klein.

A WINGED VICTORY

" I've got the Christmas trade in the shop, 'nd
a baby to house."

" I c'n pay good wages," said Hoeft. " Six,
seven dollars, already."

Klein shook his head, and Hoeft turned toward
the door. Dora went out after him, leaving
Klein staring after her.

" Oh, Mr. Hoeft," she said, " would you give
me that position? "

" You? " exclaimed Hoeft

" Yes, I'd like to practise, and I want to earn
the money, to send my brother to school," she con-
tinued, breathlessly, " if you think that I can
do it. Just what is the work? "

" Well," said Hoeft slowly, " it's keeping tally
on them fellers, when they go on the ice, 'nd when
they come off, 'nd keeping track of their pay
'nd the accounts of the boarding-house, 'nd tele-
phoning t' the city office, 'nd running oflf a letter
now 'nd then already."

" I am good at figures," said Dora, " and I am
sure that I can do everything except the type-
writing, and I'd learn that. I want a chance to."

" Well," said Hoeft, letting his smile play all
across his face, " I'd like to have you first-rate.
Can you take hold to-day, already? "

" Yes. It's vacation now ; but how long will
it last? "

" Oh, maybe five weeks. If this weather holds
we'll be filled up in a month. If it comes on to
melt we may be working till March already, but
that isn't likely this year."

Dora hoped not, for she wanted to go back to

A WINGED VICTORY

school, but she promised to stay through the
seasou, and she rode over at once to begin her
work.

The office was beside the engine that kept the
endless chain of the ice-hoister in motion. The
room shook with the steady vibration of the
machinery, but otherwise it was a comfortable
work-place. Dora's first duty was to make a
tally list of all the hands who had gone to
work that morning. From the window, where
she sat spelling out the names on the type-
writer, she could see the operations on the ice-
field. A runway had been cut, a canal of black
water in the blue ice, leading out into the middle
of the lake, where the horse-saws were dividing
the surface, checker-board fashion. Along the
edge of the runway stood men with hooks and
poles, keeping the fioating blocks in movement
toward the bolster. Occasionally one would
drop his pole, or leave his saw sticking in the
ice, and stumble toward the shore, beating his
frozen hands together or stamping his feet.
When he reached the shore his name would be
called up the tube by Hoeft or his assistant who
directed the hoisting, and Dora entered his time
on her tally sheet. At noon there was a general
suspension of work for an hour, and Dora went
to luncheon. At one they began again, and with
more frequent desertions, worked until six.
Somewhat to Dora's consternation she found
that the ambitious ones would start again at
f seven, and work by moonlight and lantern^ un-
■ til they chose to quit

A WINGED VICTORY

^^I^d ought to have told you about that al-
ready, Miss Glenn/^ said Hoeft, who had highly
praised her crude tally sheets. " I'd ought to
have thought that it would be awkward for you
to come evenings. But any night you want to
lay oflf, Fischer or me'U keep time. There ain't
many to work at night, 'nd they mostly stick
together till eleven or twelve.'*

" It's all right, Mr. Hoeft," said Dora. " I
can come perfectly well in the evening.'*

At dinner Dora was confronted by Maggie,
her arms akimbo. Dora had told Peter at noon
of her employment, as a secret, but gossip from
other sources had come to Maggie's ears.

" So it's working at the ice-house I hear y'are,"
she exclaimed, belligerently.

" Yes, Maggie. I'm keeping accounts there."

" And phwat for? "

"You know, Maggie, that we have to have
money. We owe people in the village — ^and there
are your wages and Henry's."

" And is it wages I want? Sure what would
I be doing here thin the last eight years? Have
ye iver heard a wurrud iv wages from me? Not
you, and ye niver will. But I'll not be working
for a girl that works for a Dutchman."

" I work for the company that has bought the
ice-house, Maggie," said Dora, with dignity.

"Ye work fr Max Hoeft," rejoined Maggie.
" It's him that's give ye y'r job, 'nd fr no dacint
reason, neither. Ye needn't put on as if ye
didn't know why. It's all over the village that
he's took the job away fr'm Minnie Klein 'nd

A WINGED VICTORY

give it to Dora Glenn. She^s his next, they say,
^nd Glenwood^s to be brought lower than be-
fore, — ^^nd what's he but a Dutchman any-
way."

" Maggie, you shan't say such things to me,"

cried Dora, her face dark crimson. " If you

don't know any better you'll have to go away.

Mr. Hoeft has been perfectly polite and kind to

me — ^and you know that I've got to earn money.

Every giri ought to know how. Now I want you

to see that Peter goes to bed. I'm going back to

my work."

Maggie darted forward and seized her hand.

"Ye won't go to him in the night," she

screamed, and then lowering her voice to a wail,

" Oh, if ye knew the name of him in the village.

Is it money ye want? " She tore into the kitchen

and rushed back with a tobacco bag full of bank

notes and silver. " Here's money. Take it. 'Tis

ivery bit o' me savings, but I'd give it all to keep

ye safe fr'm hinu"

"Maggie, dear Maggie," cried Dora, quite
touched and broken, "don't you know me well
enough to trust me? "

" Listen, me darlin'," said Maggie, in her most
wheedling tones, "ye think ye're sthrong, but
yell niver be able to resist him, with the soft
ways of him, and the wicked smile."

" That's nonsense, Maggie," said Dora, putting

on her coat and fur cap. " I shall not be back

until late, so don't lock up. Good-night, Peter."

The ice-house was a mile from Glenwood, and

though Dora ran all the way, she was late in

A WINGED VICTORY

arriving. Hoef t was waiting for her in the office,
with the list of men who had gone on the ice
for night work.

" I hate to leave you here alone, Miss Glenn,^'
he said. " These jacks from the city are a rough
lot already. You'd better lock the door, and then
— look here." He opened the drawer of the high
desk and showed her a revolver lying there.
"Know how to use it?'' He opened the win-
dow, fired a shot into the darkness, and held out
the arm to her. Dora put it back into the
drawer, assuring him that she had shot guns and
pistols before.

" Well, it'll do 'em good to hear the song of it
already," he said. "And anyway, I'll be just
below at the bolster."

When he went out Dora took his advice and
locked the door. From the windows she could
see a score of figures, black in the moonlight
that flooded the lake with white radiance; but
most of the men were in their quarters, whence
came from time to time their shouts and heavy
laughter. Dora was now somewhat startled at
what she had done, and with rather a sinking
heart she took up the memoranda of supplies
bought for the mess, that Hoeft had given her,
from which to make up an account. That and
the tally for the day kept her busy until Hoeft
shouted up the tube: "Call it eleven o'clock.
All oflf the ice."

When she had put on her coat and cap she
hesitated a moment, — then went to the drawer,

'•'X

A WINGED VICTORY

took out the pistol, and held it as she unlocked
the door, only to find Hoeft smiling into her
face.

" Don^t shoot," he said, taking the pistol and
blowing out the lights. " I'm going to walk home
with you already."

"Oh, please don't, Mr. Hoeft," she begged.
" I'm perfectly able to look out for myself."

" Well, I'd feel safer to," he said.

In spite of Dora's protestations he started
with her, but just outside the ice-house a gaunt
figure rose before them in the road.

" Oh, Maggie dear, did you come for me? How
good of you," cried Dora, seizing the old woman
with both arms.

And Hoeft fell away, smiling and unabashed.

The next day Dora brought Peter. He begged
to come. Inside the office it was warmer than
anywhere in the draughty mansion at Glenwood
except the kitchen; and outside all the life of
the community spread itself in its gayest colours
on the ice. It was the harvest time for Prairie
Grove, when its prosperity for the year was de-
termined. Fourteen inches of ice before the
snow came meant a great crop, and everybody
was out to make sure that it was no lie.

Peter joined the volunteers who were assist-
ing the movement of the ice toward its store-
house. He came back in the afternoon; and
when he arrived with Dora at night. Max Hoeft
grinned.

" Well, you've brought your own escort, I see,

A WINGED VICTORY

Miss Dora. All the same, I'd like to walk back
with you some night already, when you're feel-
ing strong enough to stand it."

All that week the work went fiercely forward.
Max Hoeft was determined to make a record cut,
and with all his good nature he got every ounce
of toil out of his nondescript force, which he
knew would be diminished by half after the first
pay day. That came on Saturday. The money
arrived in the morning by express, and was at
once put in the office, under guard of the village
constable. The desertions from the field were
unusually numerous that day, and by the middle
of the afternoon half the men were gathered
outside the office, clamouring for their money.
Hoeft looked out of the window and forgot to
smile.

"You'd better telephone up to Klein's for a
couple o' deputies," he said to the constable.
" There's going to be a little trouble, from the
look o' things. And before we begin. Miss Dora,
I'm going to take you out and see you oflf for
home. I've sent the kid along already. 'Twon't
be any job for a lady, this cashing-in business.
You just go over those receipts and pay-checks
with me to make sure we understand each other
already."

But Dora found that Hoeft's arithmetic was
too erratic; and after a few minutes, while he
scratched his head dolefully, she said :

" I'd better stay, after all, Mr. Hoeft. I can
read my own figures so much faster."

" I can't bear to have you, Miss Dora. Them

A WINGED VICTORY

fellers talk like — like hell, if you'll let me say
it, and they may do something worse than
talk."

" ril be back here where I shan't hear it. And
I'd rather stay than go out now."

"Well, as you say, Miss Dora," said Hoeft.
" Let 'em come in there, Frank. One at a time
already, remember."

It was evening before the last man was paid
oflf and took his songful way to the village. The
constable and his deputies had left to begin their
arrests.

"Well, Miss Dora," said Hoeft, "I've paid
everybody but you already."

He handed her a ten-dollar bill.

"No," said Dora, firmly, "you hired me for
seven dollars, and it isn't right for you to pay me
any more."

"Well, but you didn't reckon on that night
work, nor on such a ruction as this. You're dead
tired and white as a sheet. Now, I know what
you're worth. Miss Dora, and it's a great deal
more than ten dollars. And now I'm going to
get my rig and drive you home along."

" No," said Dora, " I'd rather walk. I must
be home to supper before you could harness up."

" Well," said Hoeft, " then I'll walk with you,
and maybe you'll find a bit o' supper for me.
There won't be nobody on the ice to-night."

Dora was too faint and weary to resist. She
let Hoeft put her into her coat, lock his arm with
hers, and hold her up over the frozen gullies of
the road.

A WINGED VICTORY

As they came in sight of Glenwood, Dora's
heart gave a bound. There were lights in the
living-room, — a sign that her father was at home.
Max Hoeft drew the same conclusion.

"Well," he said, as they came to the gate,
" I'll just say good-night here, and be off home
already."

" But you're going to stay to supper," returned
Dora. " I want you to. My father will be glad
to see you. He doesn't know that I am working
for the ice company, and your being there will
make it easier for me to explain."

Hoeft had not suflBcient address to escape, and
somewhat to his embarrassment he found him-
self in the house, meeting John Glenn. Dora
had never seen her father's eyes so disconcert-
ing as during the moment when, after greeting
them, he waited with a shade of amused ex-
pectation for her explanation. She plunged
into it at once, justifying her action by the need
of money for Peter's school expenses ; and Max
Hoeft came to the rescue with his praise of
her quickness at figures, as if she had been
his favourite pupil. Glenn's eyes were still more
quizzical as he replied :

"You gratify me greatly, Mr. Hoeft. Dora
has always been a good girl and has never failed
to justify the confidence which others have not
been slow to repose in her. But these words
spoken by her employer are especially appre-
ciated by her father. I can well believe that, as
she says, you have been all kindness to her. I
am glad to have this opportunity of thanking

A WINGED VICTORY

you, and hope that you will do us the honour
of sitting at our table."

Hoeft sat down helplessly. Dora began to
pity him a little. Everything that her father
said to him throughout the meal was almost
humbly courteous, and yet there was a touch of
irony in it that was not entirely lost on the
young German, who was by no means a fool.
Dora caught the look of half-unconscious suf-
fering, of wistfulness in his eyes as he looked at
her, and she regretted her father's cruelty. As
he was taking leave, Hoeft made the only re-
tort of which he was capable.

^*Well," said he, "if Miss Glenn improves
much more I shall have to raise her wages again
already. And there's another thing I've been
thinking of. Your little brother likes to be with
you. Why shouldn't he earn something, too? I
need a handy boy about, and might make it worth
his while to get down to business already."

" Thank you, Mr. Hoeft," said John Glenn.
** If you think of making an offer to Peter, I
have no doubt that he will give it his serious
consideration."

" Oh, father, not Peter," Dora protested.

'' How old is he? " asked Hoeft.

"He's only eleven," said Dora.

" Well, that's under age, but I guess nobody'll
kick. We'll see about it. Good-night, Miss
Glenn."

The next week was much easier than the first,
for fully half the men had already had enough
and did not appear again. Then, too, there

A WINGED VICTORY

was no moon and accordingly no night work.
Still, Dora half expected that Hoeft would raise
her wages again, and was relieved when he
handed her ten dollars at the end of the week.

" I'm going to pay you three dollars besides
for that brother o' youm," added Hoeft, smiling
cautiously. " He's always Johnny on the spot,
that little feller. I don't know what I sh'd do
without him to fetch 'nd carry."

Dora was prouder than she had ever been, but
she protested.

"He can't be worth that much, Mr. Hoeft.
I'm awfully glad that he helps you, but he does
it because he likes to, and doesn't expect any
pay."

" Tut, tut," said Hoeft. " He's worth all o'
that, and it's right he should get it."

Dora had scruples, but when she remembered
Lincoln's rail-splitting, and Garfield's canal-
boating, Peter Glenn's ice-cutting seemed al-
most a necessary step in his rise to greatness.
And the boy's delight in the three big silver
coins would be beautiful to see.

During the third week the ice came in still
more slowly. A great fall of snow which im-
peded the cutting was the excuse, but Hoeft
seemed satisfied with his record of the first week,
and was letting matters drift. He spent much
time in the ofllce, sitting at his desk, watching
Dora at her work; but he seldom spoke; he
always called her Miss Glenn, and he never of-
fered to replace Peter as her escort. School was
banning at Eggleston, and Dora was eager to

A WINGED VICTORY

be back, but at Hoeft's rate of progress it would
apparently take a month more to fill the ice-
house. Her work was so easy now that partly
as a hint to her employer she brought her school
books to the office, copied Latin exercises for
weeks ahead on the typewriter, and covered
broad-sides of the company^s paper with geo-
metrical demonstrations. Hoeft grew so much
interested in these processes that at last Dora
suggested that she might as well continue them
at school, and relieve his budget.

"Well, I hate to let you go already, Miss
Glenn," he replied, " but I see that you want to
get back. You can knock oflf when you like.
We'll be nearly through this week. And now I
think of it, we're going to have a sort of Harvest
Home at the village next Saturday night to cele-
brate the wind-up of the season already. It's
a masked ball. I'd like it if you'd let me take
you — ^just to open it, you know. You needn't
stay any longer than you wanted."

Dora could not refuse. She could, of course,
ask her father to forbid her going, but after all,
what were they to set themselves above their
neighbours? And then she rather wanted to see
Max Hoeft's full-faced smile again — the smile
that of late had been so ruefully repressed in
her presence.

She wrote to Linda for a dress that would
metamorphose her into a lady of some courtly
period ; and the evening on which it arrived she
began to alter it from her sister's form to her
own.

A WINGED VICTORY

"Linda must have grown larger," Dora re-
flected, as she tried on the dress in front of the
mirror. "She must be almost fat, or else I'm
very thin. I guess I'm built like a boy, anyway.
I'll have to stuff it out with a pillow to make
myself look like Madame Du Barry. And I'll
have to powder terribly, too."

As she stood before herself in the glass, watch-
ing her slim, wavering figure, her neck and
arms very brown against the whiteness of her
shoulders, a sudden desire took her, — the desire
to have a good time. All at once she realised
that she was losing her girlhood. " I'm sixteen,"
she thought, "and I've never been to a party —
except Leverett's. And I may never go to an-
other, — unless Max Hoeft takes me again."
• • . . •

The day on which the ball was to come off was
grey, with snow flurries blurring the landscape
until late afternoon. Then Dora looked out of
her window to see the sun, smoky red, setting be-
hind the violet hills. There were only a few men
working now, chiefly villagers, and Dora felt
quite safe about Peter, whom she could see scam-
pering hither and thither on the ice. They were
all very fond of him. He had fallen in once, and
everybody had stopped work while he was pulled
out and rubbed dry.

Dora lighted the lamps and went back to her
desk. She was making up her accounts for the
season, and would have to work hard to finish
before evening. Everybody was under pressure
that afternoon. They were putting in the top-

100

A WINGED VICTORY

most layer of ice; the hoisting-chain ran at an
angle of forty-five degrees; and the engine toiled
terribly, shaking the whole building with its
fierce panting.

Suddenly it stopped, dead; the rumbling of
the chain ceased as abruptly. And then Dora
heard outside shouting and crying. The engine
had broken down before, but this time, she no-
ticed, there was no swearing — only uncertain
commands, and doubtful calls for help. The
men along the runway had dropped their poles,
and were coming in, shouting back to the cutters
farther out. She flung aside her papers and ran
down the stairs. At the bottom she met Hoef t's
white face.

" Miss Dora ! For God's sake, don't go out
there. Somebody's hurt. It's terrible."

" I know," she said. " It's Peter. Let me pass.
Where is he? "

" Out there in the snow. I went for blankets.

But, Miss Dora, wait a minute. He's not dead.

He'll be all right. We've got the bleeding

stopped."

1 Dora pushed him aside and ran toward the

dait group standing vaguely in the grey field

like stones half turned to men. They let her pass.

I In the midst of them was the child, lying in the

snow where it was melted and hollowed out to

J his form by his own bright blood. He smiled up

I at her.

"It don't hurt much, Dode," he said, "but
j Diy clothes are torn dreadful, and it's awful

cold."

101

A WINGED VICTORY

A wave of relief went over Dora. He couldn^t
be much hurt, and they would stop the bleeding.
She began to gather snow in her hands and press
it against the places in his leg and his arm
whence the blood still sprang.

" Oh, Peter, how did it happen? " she moaned.

" I was trying to jump over the chain," he
said, " and I was so tired, sister. I fell on the
ice. It was so nice to lie there and be carried up.
And then I thought of the scraping-knife at the
top, and tried to get down between the cakes,
but it caught my back, and I guess it's broken.
But it don't hurt much, Dode. Really, it don't."

"That's right, Miss," said one of the men.
" Fischer seen him fall already, and shouted to
him to roll off, and we all yelled to Jake up at
the scraper to pull him off, but he didn't hear us ;
and we tried to stop the engine, but the electric
bell didn't work. It's nobody's fault. Miss."

" Yes, it's mine, it's all mine," groaned Dora.
" Peter, dear little Peter, sister didn't know any
better. Be sorry for sister, Peter. She's a fool.
Oh, a fool, a fool."

Max Hoeft came with blankets, and they laid
the little boy on them and took him up. His right
leg and arm, Dora saw, hung loosely and had to
be lifted by themselves. On the railroad siding
that ran into the ice-house was an empty box-
car, and into this the men carried him, and hung
their lanterns about the walls. When the engine,
which had been sent for, arrived, Hoeft came in.

" We're off now," he said. " Would you rather
I rode on the engine. Miss Glenn? "

102

A WINGED VICTORY

** No, no/^ cried Dora. " Stay here. I want you
to stay."

After they started he noticed that Dora had
no coat or hat, and he made her put on his ulster.

During the ride of four miles over a rough
track they were silent except for Peter's inces-
sant little patter of speech. He kept saying, " It
don't hurt much, Dode, really it don't,'' until
Dora herself could hardly breathe for agony.

" Is it true — ^that he doesn't suffer much? " she
asked the doctor who joined them at Eggleston.

" I think so," he said. " That's the worst of it."

The Eggleston doctor could do little except
put on bandages, give Peter an opiate, and go
on with them to Chicago. Hoeft telegraphed
ahead, and at their arrival they found, beside the
train, men with a stretcher, who led them for-
ward under the gloomy arch of the station into
a sudden sweep of mist and smoke-sodden air.
Dora remembered that Peter had complained of
being cold, and she wanted to wrap her ulster
about him, but Hoeft put his arras about her to
keep her from taking it off. An ambulance was
waiting. They put Peter on the swinging cot in-
side, and helped Dora in. The doctor followed.
Dora would have made rqpm for Hoeft, but he
said : " I'll ride outside."

They started off, jolting over the rough pave-
ments. Peter was sleeping now, his face, with
its childish lines, perfectly at peace; his red,
grimy little hands folded on the white counter-
pane. Soon they rolled more smoothly, and at
regular intervals beams from the arc lights struck

103

A WINGED VICTORY

in through the small windows. Dora counted
thirty-four of them before they stopped at the
hospital. Here they took Peter away, and Dora
waited miserably in a bare, dim, cold room. Her
father came in — she had forgotten him, but Max
Hoeft must have telephoned — ^and then the doc-
tor. He said that Peter would not have to die
— he might live a long time. Then her father
took her in a cab to her aunt's house, where
Linda, looking very large and fair in her night-
dress and purple wrapper, helped her to undress.
" Let me sleep in the bed with you, Linda,''
she said, "as we used to, when we were little
girls."

104

CHAPTER VIII

IN the next days Dora's life seemed to her sub-
merged and lost. It was like a stream that in
its pleasant course in the sunlight and air sud-
denly plunges into a subterranean passage, where
in darkness it rushes on with immeasurable
rapidity, whither it knows not. She was almost
unconscious of her surroundings ; the even, well-
ordered life of her aunt's home, Mrs. Henderson's
kindness, Linda's sympathy, these did not sur-
prise her — she hardly knew about them. Each
morning at the appointed time she went to the
hospital, and spent the hours, as many as they
allowed her, with Peter. Then she returned, and
sat quietly in her room, reading until dinner,
and then again until bed time. Linda lent her
some of her serious books, such as " The Mill on
the Floss," and her aunt left the Bible in her
room. Dora had done little reading, and had
never had any inner life, properly speaking. She
had been too busy with external things, work
and study and exercise. Her dreams had always
been very concrete plans for the future. Her
sufferings and disappointments had been the re-
sult of obvious physical limitations and necessi-
ties. But now suddenly her soul was called to
bow itself beneath the weight " of all this unin-
telligible world" — ^and hers was an untrained

105

A WINGED VICTORY

little soul. She envied the women of whom she
read their spiritual competence.

She did not ask about Peter. They had told
her that he was not going to die : he must then be
going to get well, but she could not be sure, and
she dared not conjecture. It was so much that
she could see every morning his eager little face,
turned toward the door by which she went to him
and all astrain with the response of his torn,
paralysed body to her caress, that she could not
demand more. She dreaded any change.

One afternoon, however, her aunt met her in
the hall as she returned from the hospital, and
went with her to her room, leading her by the
hand.

" I am to tell you, Dora," she said, " that Peter
isn't likely to die right away, but he will never
walk again. He will always be paralysed. They
don't know how rapidly the paralysis will spread,
or how long he will live. But we thought you
ought to know the worst.''

Dora flung herself on her bed in a passion of
weeping. In vain she told herself that this was
what she had feared ; certainty was none the less
overwhelming. Peter would never be well; he
was going to die sometime — soon. The end of
her struggle was there, and her life beyond had
no meaning.

" I am sorry for you, Dora," said Mrs. Hen-
derson, after a little time. " You have given up
so much to that little boy, perhaps too much.
You have made an idol of him, and now it may
be that God has taken him from you in His own

106

A WINGED VICTORY

best way, for your good and his. I have known
many mothers whose little ones have been taken
away just for that reason. Here is God's letter
to us, dear, that will have a special message for
you."

She placed a Bible on Dora's pillow, and with
sympathetic tread went away.

The Bible had been in the room all the week,
and Dora had read it conscientiously, seeking
rest and finding none. She knew, nevertheless,
that people went to the Bible for help in trouble,
and after a time she took it up and began to look
for the passages that her aunt had indicated on
the fly leaf. One was Matthew 10 : 37 :

" He that loveth father or mother more than
Me is not worthy of Me.''
Just above, in the same column, Dora read :
"And a man's foes shall be they of his own
household " ; and below, " He that findeth his
life shall lose it."

Yes, that was what her aunt had meant. She
had loved Peter more than God, and so she had
been Peter's enemy. She had tried to find poor
Peter's life for him, and God had punished her
by slaying him. " Without the shedding of blood
is iio remission of sins." They were her sins
for which God had shed Peter's blood in the white
I snow. It all fitted together exactly with what
Kps. Henderson had said to her, and with what
she had done. She had known somehow from
the first that it was her fault.

The impulse of confession was upon her. She
^^ the bell and asked the maid to send her

107

A WINGED VICTORY

sister 'to her. A moment later Linda came. She
would have put her arms about Dora, but Dora
waved her back.

" Don't touch me, Linda," she said, " until I
tell you what I have done. It was all my fault
about Peter. I wanted him to learn everything
and be a great man, and I made him study so
hard that he got headaches, and nearsighted, and
a crooked neck. And I let him work on the ice
to get money to go to college like Garfield, and
so he got hurt. I wanted him to have the beau-
tifulest life, and so God has spoiled his life, to
punish me."

Linda's eyes were wide with astonishment.

" You wanted Peter to go to college, Dode?
Why — didn't you know, didn't anyone ever tell
you, that Peter — ^well, that he wasn't right? He
couldn't ever learn like other children. He wasn't
an idiot, but he wasn't all there, as they say. He
couldn't ever have been a great man. It's true,
as Aunt Bella says, that he's to be taken from
you for your good — not to punish you, I guess,
but to leave you free, as I am. Perhaps Aunt
Bella will take you to Europe when we go in the
spring "

But Dora cut her off in a passion of furious
denial. Peter was as bright as other boys, only
a little slower. He knew ever so much more than
other boys about the woods, and his way with
animals was wonderful. But as she spoke, she
remembered, and her tongue faltered.

" O, Linda, do you think," she cried, " that I
made him so by getting him to study so hard? "

108

A WINGED VICTORY

" No, no, Dode, I know that he was so before.
That was the real reason why Aunt Bella
wouldn't take him. She wanted papa to send him
to an asylum."

And then Dora's self-tormenting spirit turned
into one of anger against Aunt Bella and Aunt
Bella's God. So God had spoiled Peter's life,
not to punish her for idolatry — that might be
explainable on some theory of divine psychology
known to Aunt Bella, — ^but before she had sinned,
and for some reason totally unreasonable, un-
just, outrageous, malicious.

"No, no," Linda protested. "God didn't do
that. He makes people die, but He doesn't make
them fools."

But Dora would not listen. " He does do that,"

she cried. " He makes us all fools. I am a fool,

and you are, Linda Glenn, and Aunt Bella. We

don't understand about things — ^and what's that

but being a fool ? Why didn't I understand about

Peter? Oh, why didn't I ? "

Linda was almost awestruck.

"I wish I hadn't told you, Dora," she said,

" but I thought that it would relieve your mind,

and make you feel better about his dying. I

didn't love Peter as much after I knew "

"I love him more, more, a hundred times
more," cried Dora, fiercely. " And I should have
loved him more, always more, and shouldn't ever
have been cross to him — poor little Peter. It
was just like a trick for God to do that — to make
me a fool, too."
Linda went away to her dinner. Dora fought

109

A WINGED VICTOEY

through the night of remorse, disillusion, and
black horror. Only the thought that she must
smile at Peter in the morning checked her agony
of self-punishment, her wild impulse of revolt.
For his sake she must keep peace with God ; lest
He should slay utterly in His wrath.

When Dora had fully comprehended that Peter
would have a few months of painful, solitary, mo-
tionless life before the end, she was chiefly
anxious that they should return to Glenwood.

" All the things he knows and likes are there,"
she said, " and I can make him happier there.''

Mrs. Henderson offered to pay to keep him at
the hospital, but it was impossible that he should
stay there indefinitely. And when nothing more
could be done for him in the ciiy, they took him
back to the country.

Peter was very cheerful on the journey. He
noted every familiar sight and face from the plat-
form at Eggleston, and from the veranda at
Glenwood, and when he was finally carried up-
stairs to Dora's room, he drew a long breath of
happiness.

" When shall I walk again, sister? " he asked.

And Dora answered :

" I don't know, Peter."

A day or two after their return, John Glenn
brought several gentlemen to see Peter. Dora
thought that they were great doctors, who per-
haps knew more than the people at the hospital,
and she could not help her heart's beating faster
with hope. But their talk with Peter was all

110

A WINGED VICTORY

about his accident — ^just how it had happened—
and one of them took notes in shorthand of what
he said, while her father walked up and down the
room, pausing now and then to stroke his son^s
face with a hand that trembled.

Peter was not a satisfactory witness. The oc-
currences of that afternoon were cloudy in his
mind, and he mingled with his testimony some
irrelevant remarks about Zebedee and his over-
turned wigwam. The gentlemen talked to Dora
also, who told them what Peter had said to her
after the accident. Upon this there was some
knitting of brows and shaking of heads.

After they had gone, John Glenn explained to
Dora that there was a question which the courts
would have to settle as to the amount of money
which the ice company should pay for Peter^s in-
jury.

" It means a good deal to us," he said, " if we
can get five or ten thousand dollars for the poor
little chap. We shall have to go to Arlington to
talk to the judge there. The company will try
to prove that Peter exhibited contributory negli-
gence — that he shouldn't have tried to jump
across the runway, and that he could have got
off the bolster if he hadn't been a fool. We rely
on the fact that he was employed under age with-
out my consent "

** But, papa, you said to Max Hoeft '^

"That was only a joke, as Hoeft knew per-
fectly well," rejoined Glenn, hastily. " And that
the electric signal was out of order so that the
engine couldn't be stopped. And it must be clear,

111

A WINGED VICTORY

too, that Peter was pinned in between the cakes
so that he couldn't get out."

" But that isn't true, papa. Peter told me him-
self ''

"Yes, I know," said Glenn, "but Peter is
hardly a competent witness. I don't want to in-
fluence you, Dora, but it is only right that the
company should pay for the injury of the boy.
And you must realise what this means. It will
be a little fortune to us, and may be the begin-
ning of a great one. I have my plans — ^and you
shall go to college. I promise you that, Dora,
if we win."

"I don't want to go to college," said Dora,

miserably. " I only wanted Peter All that

money would have got him everything he
wanted."

" Exactly," said Glenn. " And if Peter lives
he will need the money — for he will never be able
to work for himself, you know. We are pushing
the case. It will be tried next month, and vou
must be ready to help us win it."

" But, papa, you don't mean "

She did not complete her question. She shrank
from her father's answer because she loved him.
He had grown so weary, so old, so sad in the
latter days. He loved Peter, too. She saw it
in the eyes that seemed dead to all else in this
world of failure.

One day Dora and her father went to the
county courthouse at Arlington, and there heard
called the case of Glenn against the Universal
Ice Company. There were a number of men from

112

A WINGED VICTORY

Prairie Grove in the room, among them Max
Hoeft, whom she had not seen since the night of
the accident. He sat directly opposite, bnt for
some time he did not look toward her, and when
he did and she bowed, he merely nodded in an
embarrassed fashion. Dora was puzzled, until
she reflected that he was naturally the chief wit-
ness on the other side. Of course he could not
look toward her with much friendliness.

John Glenn testified first, and then Dora was
called to the stand. She was asked various ques-
tions about Peter's life and mental disposition,
which she tried to answer honestly. Then there
were questions about Peter's employment by
Hoeft, and her reasons for accepting it — ques-
tions which she could not answer. She knew that
those secret ambitions for Peter toward which
his work was to lead must never be con-
fessed.

Finally they came to the accident itself. Dora
grew pale and trembled as they approached the
question which she dreaded most of all. It was
not that she feared the temptation to lie, or the
effect of the truth, only that they would not un-
derstand what Peter meant, that they would
really think him a feeble-minded boy. At last
the query came — What had Peter himself said
to her, as he lay on the ground? She moistened
her lips, and fixing her tearful eyes on the judge's
face, she told him.

" He said he was trying to jump over the chain,
and was so tired that he fell on the ice, and it
was so nice to lie there and be carried up that he

113

A WINGED VICTORY

did not think of the knife at the top until it was
— too late — ^and then '^

She hid her face in her hands. It sounded so
pitiful — what Peter had said — ^he was such a
little boy — ^and this was so much below his real
good sense.

There was not a sound in the court. The ex-
amining lawyer nodded to the judge that he was
satisfied, and someone touched Dora's arm and
led her to her seat beside her father.

The Glenns had apparently lost their case, and
thenceforward proceedings were perfunctory un-
til Max Hoeft was called and sworn. It was
thought that there would be a direct issue of
veracity between him and Glenn over the ques-
tion of the latter's knowledge of Peter's employ-
ment, but Hoeft gave colour to Glenn's story.

*^ We had some words about it," he said, " but
I think we were joking. Mr. Glenn said if I
liked to make Peter an offer he'd no doubt that
Peter would give it his earnest consideration."

He admitted his knowledge of the fact that
Peter was under legal age. He combatted the
idea that Peter was unintelligent.

" I can't say about his schooling, but as an
errand boy and general help he was as sharp a
boy as I want to see," he asserted, emphatically.

He testified that Peter, in hanging the lanterns
about at dusk, would naturally have jumped the
runway. " There used to be a footbridge across,
but it got carried away," he said.

Asked if Peter could have rolled off the bolster,
he answered, " Well, maybe he might, but when

114

A WINGED VICTORY

I got to him he was wedged tight between the
blocks. He couldn't move.''

And finally he admitted that the electric bell
was out of order. " And that was my fault al-
ready," he added.

While Hoeft was on the stand he looked at
Dora only once. Just after his tribute to Peter's
intelligence the light of gratitude in her face
drew his eyes to hers, but he looked away again
at once.

As soon as Hoeft had finished his testimony
the court arose amid some excitement. The
opinion was freely expressed that Hoeft had
given away the case for the company, and lost
his position, if he had not made himself indict-
able for manslaughter. Dora realised that he
had done himself an injury, and as he passed
near them in the crowd, she wanted to speak to
him, but her father checked her.

" Max is a fine fellow," he said, " but it would
embari^ass him if we should tell him so now."

He looked at her with a faint gleam of mockery
in his dull eyes which she did not try to under-
stand.

The trial lasted for several days more, but
Dora did not gor to the courthouse ; and thus it
happened that she never saw Max Hoeft again.
On the day on which the jury rendered a verdict
of five thousand dollars in Peter's favor, she
received a letter at Glenwood. She read :

*' Dear Miss Dora :
*' I'm terrible glad that you got the verdict.

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A WINGED VICTORY

You deserved it. It was our fault that Peter got
hurt on account of the electric bell, but I hope
you won't think too hard of me for it. When you
were a little girl and I worked for your father,
and after, when I saw you riding about Prairie,
sitting so straight and handsome, I used to wish
I had a chance to be good to you, and instead I've
done you harm, though I never meant it. I'm
going away from Prairie Grove, and likely you'll
never hear of me again, but I hope the little
feller will get well — ^and that you'll have that
money to go to school with, and learn all that
Latin and Geometry that you used to do in the
office, is the hope of your sincere good wisher,

" Max Hobft.'^

Dora had suspected it at the trial : now she was
sure of it; he had done it for her. They said
that he was a bad man — she remembered Maggie's
stormy outbreak — ^but he could love and be good
to people. She was not troubled by* ethical
scruples from his point of view. She never
thought to put herself in place of his conscience.
She was only sorry that she could not tell him
how grateful she was. The memory of his simple,
full, smiling face stayed with her; and the
thought that he was somewhere in the world,
loving her and wishing well to her, gave her
comfort and a gleam of courage.

116

CHAPTER IX

THE anxiety which Glenn had shown to have
the trial as early as possible had made Dora
suspect that Peter's death was nearer than they
said ; and as the days passed and he grew quieter
and weaker, less eager to be up and out of doors,
she knew that it was so. And then she began to
be troubled about what to tell him. Dora had
had no ordinary religious teaching. Her ideas
of anything beyond the tangible world were of
the vaguest — they refused to go into words. She
shrank from telling Peter simply that he was
going to die. When she asked her father he
mentioned the Lutheran minister from the vil-
lage, but Peter, in common with the other chil-
dren of the community, was much afraid of the
clergyman.

"Well, then," suggested her father, "why
don't you ask your Aunt Bella to come out and
talk to Peter? It's quite in her line, and she
would like to do it Now that I think of it, it
would be a very proper attention.''

" Oh, not Aunt Bella, papa," said Dora, de-
cidedly.

" You'll have to speak to him yourself, then,"
said Glenn, "though I don't see any particular
need of troubling Peter at all. You can't tell
him anything about it that he will understand.
We can't tell anybody anything that anybody
understands."

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A WINGED VICTORY

But Dora would not take this view. That
Peter was about to pass through some change she
knew, and though she could not tell him what
it was, she could not bear that it should come
upon him utterly unaware — ^that without warn-
ing he should find himself outside the little world
that she had made for him — ^perhaps obliged to
take a journey in the dark and cold, with stran-
gers about him, frightened and lonely. It came to
her that their mother would be waiting for him —
but Peter had been but a baby when she died.
He would not know her.

" Do you remember, Peter," she said, one even-
ing, " that we had a mamma once? She was a
tall, beautiful lady with light hair like Linda's.
I remember that she wore a great many rings on
her fingers, and a gold comb in her hair, but she
was sick most of the time and had to lie on a
couch. But now she is well, and lives in a beau-
tiful country a long way from here. And Peter
is going to live with her."

Peter was looking at her intently, with grave,
steady eyes.

" Peter'd rather stay with sister," he said.

" But Peter will be strong and well then, as
he used to be; and she will love him, and make
him very happy."

Still Peter refused.

" Peter'd rather stay with you, even if Peter^s
sick."

" But Peter is her little boy," urged Dora,
" and she wants him to be with her. She has a

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A WINGED VICTORY

beautiful home somewhere. She is going to send
for Peter."

" Will it be horses or the train? " asked Peter.
" And why won^t she send for you, too, sister?
Peter can't go without you."

" Oh, yes you must, Peter. That's why sister
is telling you about it beforehand. And it won't
be a carriage or train. Peter will hear her call-
ing, and will just go. He will leave his body,
that's so dreadfully hurt, here, for them to bury
in the ground, but what is really Peter, the part
that thinks and knows, will go away to that other
country."

Peter pondered this with his grave look. Sud-
denly he asked, with a directness that startled
Dora:

"Do you mean that Peter is going to die,
sister? "

" Yes, dear Peter. His body is so hurt that it
won't be of any use to him, and so "

" Will Peter have a new body, sister? "

" Yes," said Dora, hastily.

" Will it be soon, sister? "

" No, I hope not. I don't think so," said Dora,
rising and wiping away her tears, before she
lighted the lamp.

" Peter'd like to stay with you until summer
comes," he said, wistfully.

After this they had much talk about these
things, and Dora strove to answer Peter's ques-
tions. But the other world presented itself to
her imagination in such shadowy outlines that

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A WINGED VICTORY

she could give no satisfactory account of it
Even the brilliant colouring of the apocalypse, to
which she had recourse, appealed but slightly to
Peter's desires. But by dint of repetition Peter
was familiarised with the idea that he was truly
going to see his mamma — and they talked of
what he should say to her — ^and that he was to
have a new body that would never pain him or
be tired — ^and they tried to imagine what that
would be like.

Nevertheless, Peter's chief interest continued
to be the world of the present. It was a great
subtraction from his pleasure that Dora did not
go to school, and had nothing to tell him of les-
sons or football. She tried to fill the gap by a
realistic account of the life of the village, and by
a brilliant picture of the happenings at school
and at Leverett Raymond's home. In the face
of Peter's need of entertainment she flung away
all scruples, and handled that hero as freely as
a romantic novelist would have done. Her ac-
counts excited Peter immensely; the only thing
he missed was Dora's own participation in the
events that she narrated. Once or twice his de-
mand for authoritative narrative grew so keen
that she thought of having Pansy saddled and
visiting the Eggleston school. But the Leverett
of her fiction had now departed so widely from
life that she vaguely felt that his prototype
could never be anything to her but a stranger,
and that her appearance in the story would be
an intrusion.

Life at Glenwood moved heavily. Several

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A WINGED VICTORY

nurses tried the loneliness and privation of it
and succumbed, until finally Dora had learned
all that they had to teach and got along by her-
self. One day Doctor Bell came. He was sur-
prised to find Dora without a nurse, and declared
that he should send one — "one who will stay
till her job is done.''

Dora protested, but he cut her short.

** You can't be left alone now, my dear. We
can't tell what may happen."

After the doctor had finished his examination,
Peter made Dora put her head down close to
him, and said, softly:

"Ask him if Peter can stay until summer."

The doctor heard and shook his head. When
they were outside he said : " I can't tell exactly.
Perhaps not more than a week."

Dora stood at the door after his departure,
holding her hands to her temples. Already she
heard Peter's voice, " Does he say Peter can stay
with you till summer, Dode? " And it was his
right, as a human being, to know the truth. She
entered the room softly and put her face against
Peter's.

" He says— only a week, Peter."

"A week! Why, that's — that's only Monday,
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Satur-
day. Peter can't think of a week, it's so short.
You can't finish that story about Leverett and
Philippa. Oh, sister, sister, run after him and
make him let Peter stay longer. Peter don't
want to go to mamma. Peter don't want a new
body."

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A WINGED VICTORY

Dora comforted him, though it wrung her
heart to hear him adjusting his poor little hopes
and plans to the space of six days.

The next morning Peter was in pain and fever-
ish, and before noon Dora began to long for the
arrival of the nurse whom Doctor Bell was to
send.

When the afternoon train was due she went to
the window, and looked anxiously along the road
toward Eggleston for the black station carriage.
The year was at its worst — winter mouldering
into spring; the fields lying dishevelled under a
tattered, dirty sheet of snow, waiting for their
bath of rain and their green robes ; the roads,
mere ditches, ankle-deep with mud. The land-
scape was relieved only by the woods, very black
over the grey snow, and the half weather-stained
ice-houses, staring dimly through the mist. The
carriage was not in sight, but on the road there
was a horse, a black powerful animal, coming
on through the mud at a heavy canter, and his
rider

Dora did not stop to think of herself as a
maiden in an enchanted tower, nor of Leverett
Eaymond as her knight, come to set her free. She
knew that, he could not help her, but she was
more glad than she had been of anything in her
life that he had come. ' The boards of the bridge
over the creek were very rotten. She clasped her
hands and held her breath until he was over.
Then she ran to Peter's side.

" Who is coming, do you think, to see Peter? '*
she demanded, her eyes dancing.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" Peter don't know," came the patient answer.

" Leverett Raymond — the boy I've been telling
you about."

Peter's eyes lighted, too.

" Did he bring his little sister with him? "

" No, he is coming on horseback."

" What did he say to Peter, when he came? "

" Oh, Peter, you think it's still the story, but
it isn't. It's Leverett himself — ^his own very self.
He's coming through the gate. Can't you hear
his horse's hoofs? "

She sprang away down the staira The tension
of these last terrible weeks was broken, and in
the reaction she was suddenly hysterically happy.
That just this should have happened — that she
should be able to show Peter his hero — it was too
wonderful. She almost feared to open the door
lest she should find that she had seen a vision.

Leverett was dismounting. His spurs were
caked with mud, and he was spattered from head
to foot. Even his face was flecked here and there,
but in Dora's eyes the marks of his adventure
were precious.

He came toward her with quite unusual em-
barrassment. He remembered the last time that
they had been together, but Dora had not a
thought of it. She ran to him with her hands
outstretched.

" I'm very glad you've come. No, please don't
rub the mud oflf your face. I want to show you
to my little brother just as you are."

" Your brother? " asked Leverett ^* The one
that was hurt? Is he better? "

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A WINGED VICTORY

" No. He can't get better, but it will make him
awfully happy to see you. Come."

*^ I don't know as I'd better, if he's very sick.
I came to tell you how sorry we all were at school.
We read about the accident in the paper, you
know, and I rode over once before to see you, but
I couldn't find anybody here.'*

"That was when we were at the hospital,"
said Dora. " You were very good to come. But
you must see Peter. I told him that you were
on the way, as soon as I saw you. Come."

She seized the boy's hand to drag him up
the steps, but suddenly a new thought came to
her.

" Oh, I must tell you ^," she paused in per-
plexity. " I did tell you once that I made stories
about you for Peter."

" About me? "

" Yes. Peter used to ask me about the boys
at school, and as you were the only one I knew,
I told him about you. And when I didn't know
anything true to tell I made up things. You've
got a sister Philippa — she's eleven ; and a father
and mother, and an Aunt Nancy who hates you,
and a Cousin John who pretends to like you,
but is really your enemy. You don't mind com-
ing into our play a little, do you? It's so hard
to satisfy Peter when he asks questions. And
he does, always, about you. It was all I had to
give him."

Leverett's eyes looked away to the woods, and
he squeezed Dora's hand.

" You're a wonder, Dora," he said, " to make

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A WINGED VICTORY

up all that. Sure, I'll come in, and never let on a
bit."

" That's right. Just follow along what he
says — ^and do come quick."

They hastened up the stairs and Dora pushed
Leverett ahead of her into Peter's room.

" Here he is, Peter. This is Leverett Raymond.
He has ridden over from Eggleston to see you,
and so he's all wet and muddy."

Peter could not lift his head from the pillow,
but his eyes shone with welcome. Leverett took
the hand that lay outside on the sheet and kept
it in his as he sat down on the bed.

" I'm awfully sorry you're hurt, Peter," he
said. "All the fellows at school are."

" Do they know Peter? " asked the boy, in his
hoarse little whisper.

" We saw about it in the paper, and we knew
you were Dora's brother. And of course I know
you. Dora has told me about you, and I'm glad
she has talked to you about me."

"Oh, yes," said Peter. "How's Philippa?
Why didn't Philippa come? "

" Philippa? Oh, the roads are too bad — some-
thing awful. Grassy Creek has overflowed Spin-
ner's Hollow, and the water was up to Auster's
knees. Black Auster's my horse, you know. But
Philippa's very sorry that you're sick. She,
she "

He looked at Dora in perplexity, but Peter
gave him a new lead.

" Does Philippa know that it was Cousin John
who stole her pony? "

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A WINGED VICTORY

"Yes, indeed, and it's all right now. The
pony's back in the stable, eating his head off."

" You didn't tell Peter that, Dode," he said,
reproachfully.

" Dora's only just heard about it from Lever-
ett," she hastened to say. " But, Peter, ask him
about football."

" Tell Peter about football," echoed the boy.

Leverett hastened to this safer ground, and
poured out his reminiscences. Peter also in-
quired about matters at school.

" Dora doesn't go any more," he said. " I wish
she would."

" So do I," said Leverett, heartily. " But when
you're better, old chap "

He paused in some uncertainty.

" You mean when Peter gets his new body?
But then Peter won't be here. He's got to go
away, ever so far, and Dora won't tell him stories
any more."

" Why, maybe — maybe you'll be right here and
know everything that Dora does, you know, and
everything that I do — without having to ask
Dora."

" Peter'd like that," exclaimed the boy in his
eager whisper. " Peter'd rather do that than
go to mamma, Dode. But you said Peter'd have
to go to mamma in another country."

Leverett looked around at Dora.

" I'm making a mess of things," he said.

Dora's eyes were bright.

" No, you're not. Perhaps Leverett is right,
Peter. Maybe you can wait somewhere near by

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A WINGED VICTORY

until Dora can take you on that long journey to
mamma. Sister didn't think of that. Maybe
you'll be near us all the time. We shan't see
you, but you'll see us."

She also paused in doubt, but Peter sighed
happily.

" Peter'd like that," he murmured. " Will
Peter see you at school, sister? "

" Yes, indeed," said Dora.

"And at college, too?"

"Yes, if sister goes to college, Peter will
know."

" But you'll go to college, Dora. Peter wants
to see you there."

" Sure," exclaimed Leverett, " Dora will go
to Western College. That's where my father's
going to send me. They have girls there, too."

He made the admission at what cost Dora
could guess.

"Peter wants you to do all these things — to
go to college and be President," the boy con-
tinued, earnestly. " And Peter'll always see you.'^

" Oh, Peter, girls aren't ever President," said
Dora, a little ashamed of his ignorance.

" What do girls be, Dode? "

"Oh, sometimes they are teachers, like Miss
Peaks; or typewriters, like the girl in papa's
office; and sometimes they are just mothers."

" Peter'd like you to be that, Dode — a mother
like mamma was."

Leverett looked up quickly. There were tears
in his eyes, and his voice was thick.

" I guess I'll have to go," he said. " I'll come

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A WINGED VICTORY

to see you again before long, old chap," he added,
pressing Peter's hand gently.

" Bring Philippa."

" Yes, I'll try to. Now, good-bye."

" Dode," gasped Peter in his exhausted whis-
per, " Peter'd like to kiss him."

" Would you, — please? " begged Dora.

Leverett bent down and kissed the boy. Then
he turned quickly to the stairs, his spurs clank-
ing as he ran down. From the window Dora saw
him mount and ride away in the mist. She went
back to Peter.

" Didn't you like him, lots and lots, Peter? "
she asked.

" Peter loves him," said the child.

That evening Peter was wakeful and restless,
but not unhappy. He returned to the idea that
Leverett had put into his mind.

" He don't think Peter'll have to go away from
you, Dode," he whispered confidently. " Peter'll
wait for you."

" But you'll have to go a little way, Peter,"
she said.

"Yes, just a teeny little way. But Peter'll
be near by and know everything that you're do-
ing. You'll go to college, and you'll be a mother
and live in a beautiful house like Leverett's, if
you're not President. You'll do all the things
that Peter was going to do, and then Peter won't
be sorry that he's dead," sighed the boy con-
tentedly.

And Dora, who could not look at the years
without trembling, thinking how lonely they

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A WINGED VICTORY

would be when the child who had filled her life
should have gone out of it, assented bravely. He
was insisting on the only immortality he could
seize and hold as real, an immortality in the
progress of the life that was dearest to him.
And this thought persisted to the last, when even
the idea of his continued nearness to Dora, like
that of his new body, and his journey into the far

country to his mother, had faded away.

• . • • •

Peter died on one of the first springs days,
when earth had set about in earnest to repair the
ravages of the winter. The burial service at
Glenwood was read by the Lutheran minister —
the great bearded Levite of whom Peter had been
so much afraid. As he opened the Bible a feel-
ing of repulsion seized Dora. " God's letter to
us with a special message for me," she thought.

But the words which he read were new to her :
she listened to them with an intensity that came
from a conviction of their literal truth.

" To every thing there is a season, and a time
to every purpose under the heaven :

" A time to be born, and a time to die : a time
to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is
planted.

"A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a
time to mourn, and a time to dance."

The simple statement of common experience
swayed her mind into belief in the doctrine which
followed.

" I have seen the travail which God hath given
to the sons of men to be exercised in it.

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A WINGED VICTORY

"He hath made everything beautifal in his
time; also He hath set the world in their heart
so that no man can find out the work that God
maketh from the beginning to the end.

" I know that there is no good in them but
for a man to rejoice, and to do good in his life.
And also that every man should eat and drink,
and enjoy the fruit of all his labour ; it is the gift
of God."

It was so moderate, so reasonable. There was
healing in it for a soul made sick by anger at the
vagaries of the great sentimentalist of Aunt
Bella^s religion.

The minister completed the chapter and turned
for his climax to the fifteenth chapter of First
Corinthians, but the effect was lost on Dora. It
seemed illogical, and its very eloquence im-
planted distrust. Later in the day, when they
had buried Peter in the churchyard of Prairie
Grove, and she had returned to the desolate man-
sion she looked up the passage, and her impres-
sion was confirmed. " There are also celestial
bodies, and bodies terrestrial," she read. So she
had told Peter. Did Saint Paul know any better
than she? After all, " Who knoweth the Spirit
of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the
beast that goeth downward to the earth? " Sup-
pose it should be true, that " All are of the dust,
and all turn to dust again "? Well, this at least
they could say : " That there is nothing better
than that a man should rejoice in his own works,
for that is his portion."

She read the chapter many times in the slow

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A WINGED VICTORY

weeks that followed. The wholesome positivism
of it gave her strength and courage in the weak-
ness and languor which assailed her. She
learned it by heart, and thenceforward went
about her tasks to the steady roll of the
lines: "A time to be bom, and a time to
die ; a time to kill, and a time to heal ; a time to
get, and a time to lose," which came to beat out
for her the indomitable rhythm of life.

The chapter was an echo of that faith in the
world that had been implanted in her while she
was almost a baby, that had been so rudely
shaken by all of Peter^s fate, but that Peter him-
self had helped to restore. His belief in her life
was a sort of sacred affirmation of her own trust
in it — ^and though in the blankness of her vision
and the emptiness of her heart, she wept as
Bachel, she knew that she could not be false to
that faith, nor go always uncomforted.

131

PART II

CHAPTER I

IN the emptiness made by Peter's death, Dora
Glenn passed gropingly the next two years.
She was not morbid : her normal, buoyant health
of spirit and body carried her through her crisis,
and brought her again the interests and pleas-
ures of a girl in the country, but her mind long
refused to provide her with a formal plan for the
direction of her life. It was to carry out Peter's
half-comprehended ambitions that she completed,
in the next two years, the high school course at
Eggleston, and prepared to go farther. The chief
seat of learning in the neighbourhood was West-
ern College. Leverett Raymond had gone thither
a year before. He had written her of his life
there, and it was the college of which he had
spoken to Peter. Accordingly she chose it.

On an autumn morning Dora went away from
Qlenwood and the place that had been her home
tor all of her remembered life. She was up early
1 in the dull fog-light to saddle Pansy for the ride
to Eggleston — ^the last ride along that main-
travelled road of her youth. Her father was
there to see her oflf.

" It is a great moment in a woman's life," he
observed, "when she first leaves the paternal
kome. You are going, Dora, to take part in the
great competition of life in which your sex is
donbtless destined in the next generation to win

135

A WINGED VICTORY

first honours. I can, at this time, find nothing
more appropriate to say to you, my dear daugh-
ter, than this : Be true to the traditions of Glen-
wood."

" Thank you, papa," said Dora, as she kissed
him good-bye.

The ride was glorious. Dipping down into the
hollows, where the mist lay dense, was like the
old viking's plunge on horseback to the bottom
of the sea, into a grey, mysterious world of gro-
tesque, distorted things: and riding to the tops
of the ridges was to rise again on the crest of a
wave, into the heaven of sunshine and blue sky.
Somewhere between was the world of every-day,
but Dora did not find it until she reached Eggles-
ton and had to collect her baggage, brought by
the stage. The sight of her trunk and boxes re-
minded her that she was leaving the freedom of
the prairie for the conventional life, and that
her childish fancies should have no place in a
student's mind.

It was with a very serious face, therefore, that
Dora looked for the first time upon the cam-
pus of Western College, The great buildings,
straight-shouldered and stern-browed, gave her
a solemn feeling of being in a temple — the temple
of the modern faith, whose priests passed up ^nd
down these sacred walks daily to make sacrifice
for the ignorance of such as she. And in this
religious mood she went about, trying to find
the narrow room in which, nun-like, she was to
dwell.

It turned out to be a little triangular citadel

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A WINGED VICTORY

in the comer of the roof of the highest build-
ing. A conch and a chiffonier filled two sides,
leaving the third for the generous windows
which gave a view of Lake Michigan. Dora drew
a sigh of contentment. It was what she would
have chosen. She was entirely prepared to re-
spond to the first words which she heard in this
new place, words spoken by a girl who suddenly
stood, unannounced, in the doorway — the most
radiant being that Dora had ever seen.

" Aren't you glad to be here? Aren't you per-
fectly happy with this stunning view? My name
is Constance Dare; and I know all about you.
Leverett Raymond told me. You're Dora Glenn.
It^s good that you're to be in our hall. It's the
only reasonable place to live in. Have you
picked out your courses yet? If you like to come
over I'll help you."

" I was just going," said Dora, marvelling at
the girl's charm. It was not that she was tall
and handsome, but that there was such a clear-
ness and brightness about her skin, and eyes,
and teeth, and hair, — ^something fiamelike, that
prepared one for the fitful, darting vividness
of her action and speech.

She took Dora's hand and led the way down-
stairs, saluted on the way by numerous demon-
strations of aflfection and loyalty. As they went
across the campus she remarked :

"You've ridden a lot, haven't you? I can tell
that by the swing in your walk. We must have
some rides together if you've brought your horse.
Call me Constance— ^if you like."

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A WINGED VICTORY

At the door of the main building they passed
a group of students, among whom Constance
distributed salutes and smiles with a superb
air of largesse. She saw Dora through her busi-
ness arrangements, showing the same generous
condescension to the college officers as to her
fellow-students. Then they went back to lunch-
eon, and Dora was presented to the head of her
hall, who smiled on her kindly as Constance com-
manded. After luncheon Constance rushed
away, with an injunction to Dora not to make
any engagement for the evening.

Dora intended to spend the evening in un-
packing her books and getting generally settled,
but she was glad to plead Constance's prohi-
bition to various girls who called on her during
the afternoon, each with a new seduction — ^a
dance, a tally-ho ride, a candy-making, a meet-
ing of the religious society. She was a little over-
whelmed by these attentions, and embarrassed.
None of her would-be hostesses would admit that
she needed the evening for herself, but at the
mention of Constance Dare, one and all looked
blank and retired.

When Constance appeared again, late in the
afternoon, with a satellite whom she introduced
as Vera Cross, Dora felt almost committed to
her plan. She put forward, rather feebly, her
need of preparing for the next day, but she was
at once overborne.

"Oh, nonsense,'^ interrupted Constance,
" we're going to dine down-town, and go to the
theatre afterwards. Leverett Baymond is com-

138

A WINGED VICTORY

ing just because you are. I uever knew him to
go on one of these coeducational bats before.
Besides, you couldn't possibly stay in college to-
night. There'll be music and children's games
in the parlour to make the new girls feel at home.
They won't They'll only think that they've got
into a little kindergarten hell."

On their way to the station they were joined
by Leverett Raymond, and Dora, with a great
gasp of joy, escaped for a moment from the con-
straint of her new relations into the freedom
of an old friendship. Yet even with Leverett
she felt very shy and strange. In the last two
years he had been at boarding-school and at col-
lege, and had spent his summers abroad. He
had outstripped her far in experience, — and phys-
ically he had outgrown her. Two years ago
she had been tall for her age, and had met
Leverett's eyes on a level. Now he looked over
her head, and was indeed quite overpowering.
His face, with its straight nose and lips and
emphatic chin, had always had a trace of hard-
ness in its strength ; and his troubled brow still
frowned at the world above eyes which clouded,
as they used to, like those of a sulky beauty. All
this she gathered in an instant of swift scrutiny,
before the warmth of his greeting reassured her.

" You're not as tall as you used to be, are you,
Dora? " he asked anxiously, as he took his seat
beside her in the train. " And you do your hair
diflferently.'^

" That's just a guess," said Dora. " How did
I do it before? "

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A WINGED VICTORY

"I don^t remember, but higher up somehow,
not low in your neck. But your smile hasn't
changed," he continued. " I wondered if you
would ever smile that way again, — as if yon were
perfectly happy.''

" Well, I am very happy. Everybody has been
tremendously kind to me. Miss Dare came to
see me as soon as I got here, and at least four
other girls came this afternoon to ask me to go
to some sort of a frolic to-night. I don't see
why they should be so good to me."

" Don't you? Well, you'll see when pledging
day comes around. All the clubs are going to
rush you. I've told them that you're the prize
in this freshman package."

" It's good of them to believe you when they
don't know anything about me."

" Oh, they don't believe me, but they think
it might be tru^ and none of them wants to be
left. And then they know that you're Linda
Glenn's sister, and Miss Glenn is one of the
beauties of the North Side, and her picture is in
the Sunday supplement every other week."

" Still, I have to thank somebody, and so it
must be you. And it's really noble of you to
come with us to-night Constance told me that
you don't go to these things."

" Of course I came. I took the first chance to
see you, but generally I don't stand for this soft-
drink dissipation. Since my father won't let
me go to a man's college, I try to forget that
Western isn't Yale or Princeton, and act as if
it were."

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A WINGED VICTORY

" It doesn't seem to me worth while to come
here at all unless you accept the life of the place,"
said Dora, chilled.

" I beg your pardon,'^ said Leverett. " I'm
terribly glad that you thought it worth while.
Do you know, this afternoon I was near doing
what I've never done — calling at one of the
women's halls? "

" It's well you didn't," said Dora. " I had
callers all the time. But perhaps you could
have helped me to choose among them."

" I couldn't do that. I'm bound to them all
to help you choose the best, and so I've got to
stay neutral. But you'll pick up the scent all
right."

They were at the station, and as the party

flowed together again, Dora had time to look at

the other men, who had merely been introduced

to her. One, who was addressed as Brown, was

a tall, rather gracefully loose person, with a

humorously serious face. He seemed to be a

connoisseur of local colour, and led the party

to a Chinese restaurant lately discovered. He

also kept the talk running with what seemed to

Dora reckless violence, along topics which she

thought dangerous; but he was very thoughtful,

and never let the newcomer feel that she had

been left behind.

After dinner, as they went to the theatre,

Leverett explained to Dora that he was begin-

i^ing training, and would have to leave them.

"I hope that you're having a good time at

college? " he added, anxiously.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" I think so/' said Dora. " But it's all very
different from what I thought it would be.''

Her impression of the incongruity of the ele-
ments of her new life was to be still keener, for
the day was by no means over. When they
reached the dormitory, very late, it appeared that
none of the girls had a key.

" Oh, Constance," said Vera, reproachfully,
" you said that you'd sign for all of us, and of
course I thought you'd get a key."

" Oh, Vera," said Constance, in the same tone,
" I forgot to sign for any of us, and of course I
thought you'd kept your key from last year.
Well, there's nothing for it but to wake up Laura
Lane."

"That's too bad," said Vera. "She's so
frightened about breaking rules and that sort of
thing."

" It's good for her to test her moral life a
little," said Constance. " She'd never know the
taste of the knowledge of good and evil if I didn't
shake the tree for her now and then."

"We'll say good-night to you first," she con-
tinued, turning to the young men. " No, you
needn't be afraid to leave us. We're much safer
without you, from the Powers that Pray."

After they had watched the masculine forms
disappear in the darkness, Constance picked up
some gravel from the driveway and threw it
with good aim at a window in the second story.
It took several attempts, but at last the sash
shot up, and a much-injured voice inquired what
was wanted.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" It isn't Laura at all," whispered Vera.
" She's changed her room without letting us
know."

"Well, if you ever called on her except
through the window you might have found it
out," said Constance. " Who is that girl, any-
way? A new one, I suppose."

" Oh," she continued, in her smoothest tones,
"we're so sorry to trouble you, but we've un-
fortunately been locked out. Would you be so
kind as to come down to the door and let us in? "

"No. I can't. It's against the rules. You
can wake up the housekeeper."

The window shot down again with a slam.

" That girl, whoever it is, might just as well
leave college to-night, or rather this morning,
as wait till the end of the term," said Constance,
impressively.

" Ho, it's easy enough for you to threaten.
The point is how we're to get in," said Vera,
almost tearfully.

"You see how easily Vera loses her nerve,"
said Constance, apologetically to Dora. " She
would never speak to me in that tone if she were
mistress of herself. I hope that you're not
alarmed. Of course, we shall get in. Let's re-
connoitre. There's nothing doing on this side,
so let's try the other."

They crept about the obdurate shoulders of
the building, and looked up.

" Great Scott, there's a light," exclaimed Con-
stance.

It was in the third story, and it took some
good shooting to reach it with pellets of gravel.

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A WINGED VICTORY

At last the shade was raised, and a girPs
figure in a nightdress appeared in the lighted
square.

" It's a freshman," laughed Constance.
" Lucky we sent the men away. Who can it
be? Why, it's that girl that the Lambdas are
rushing. What's her name? "

" Ethel Walker," said Vera.

" Where's she from? "

"From Oshkosh, I think."

The sash was now timidly raised, and a
white and frightened face gleamed out upon
them.

" Oh, dear Ethel," began Constance, " we must
see you right away. It's very important. You
mustn't lose a minute, but come down and let
us in."

" Who are you? " came in halting accents.

"Friends from Oshkosh," said Constance.

The face vanished, and the three made their
way back to the door.

" Bet you she doesn't come," said Vera.

" If she does," said Constance, " I'll — ^give me
your Gamma Nu pin. Vera."

The door opened and the three culprits stood
inside, in their midst a, pallid child in a blanket
wrap.

"What's wrong at home?" she said. "Tell
me right away. Oh, I am so frightened."

"Nothing, dear child," said Constance, put-
ting her arms about her. "All's well at Osh-
kosh, by gosh ! "

" But what did you make me come down for? "

144

A WINGED VICTORY

** That will appear in a moment/' said Con-
stance. " Vera, give me that pin/'

" Don't stop for any nonsense, Constance,"
said Vera, but she obeyed,

"You said it was important," chattered the
girl, " and I ran as fast as I could,"

"You did well," said Constance. "Now,
Ethel, at this dread hour of the night and in the
presence of these virgin witnesses I ask of you
— ^and I charge you by what you hold holiest to
answer truthfully — ^are you pledged to any so-
ciety in Western College? "

" N-no," shivered Ethel.

" Have you been asked to join any? "

" N-no."

"Then I shall pin upon the nightgown that
covers your trembling form this insignia of the
best society in Western — Gamma Nu. No dem-
onstrations of enthusiasm," she said, sternly, to
the witnesses. " Ethel, lead us up to your
room."

" It looks something awful," whimpered the
girl.

The room was in fact chaotic. A great trunk
in the centre had been emptying itself volcan-
ically, and amorphous streams of dresses, lin-
gerie, books, boots, and athletic goods had flowed
out over the floor and on to the chairs in every
direction.

"I was looking for my certificate of moral
character," said Ethel, disconsolately. "They
told me at the office not to come back without
it."

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A WINGED VICTORY

" That means that you needn't go back at all/*
said Constance, "but never mind, I'll give you
one a little later. Just now we must seek for
first aid to the physical, not the moral, life. Have
they sent you away from home without food,
child? "

" They thought I'd find food here," said Ethel,
with some spirit, " but I've biscuit, and oranges,
and a chocolate cake."

" Ah, ha, petite fours. You need not tell me
that you come from a family of culture. I
prophesy that you will be let out of Freshman
English. Is that a bottle that I see before
me?"

" It's just Peruna," said Ethel. " I'm to take
it only if I get run down or need a tonic."

" You are run down ! You do need a tonic !
Quick, child, a teacup."

Ethel ran to fetch it. Constance perched her-
self on the open lid of the trunk. Vera and Dora
collapsed on the couch in suppressed mirth.
Never did mischief wear a more compelling as-
pect than in the person of Constance Dare.

" I drink your good health, Ethel," said that
superb person from her precarious throne, " and
may you never run farther down, or need a tonic
more than in this moment. Ah, a perfectly
good cocktail. Drink with me, ladies, to our suc-
cesses — first, that we are safe ; and second, that
this blessed little by-product is saved to Gamma
Nu from our friends, the enemy ; and third, that
a great tradition is established, — that Gamma
Nu — ^and by imitation the other clubs — ^will here-

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A WINGED VICTORY

after pledge its members at the witching hour of
two A, M. And the password is * Oshkosh, by
gosh/ "

She leaped from the trunk, bringing the lid
down with a bang.

"I don't see how the office could demand a
certificate of moral character from brows like
yours, Ethel, but we'll conform to their red tape.
Vera, please sit at the desk, take pen in hand,
and write as per dictation.

" To whom it ma^ concern :

" Have you got that?

"This is to certify that I know thoroughly
the Ethel Walker herein mentioned, and can
vouch for her in every respect. She is attractive
in appearance ; modest and retiring, but with a
manner that inspires confidence; industrious,
persevering, energetic, trustworthy. She pos-
sesses a fine Christian character, and I have
known her to exhibit marked courage and self-
control in trying situations.

" Got that? Who signed your certificate from
Oshkosh, Ethel?"

"My minister, the Reverend Doctor Penni-
wopth — Isaac Penniworth."

" Put that down. Vera.''

"No. That's wrong — it's criminal, Con-
stance."

" Give it here, then."

"You aren't going to commit a forgery?"

" No," said Constance, " I'm only going to
sign it," and she wrote in long, angular letters :
"Constance Dare."

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A WINGED VICTOET

The three took leave of their little rescuer,
who still wore the token of her valour proudly
pinned on her nightgown. Vera lived on the
same floor — Dora and Constance went up stairs.

" Good-night," said Dora, but Constance threw
open a door and pulled her in.

" You haven't seen my den,*' she said. " You'd
better come in, and have some coflfee."

And Dora, weary as she was, could not resist
the fascination. Constance turned on the light,
went to a side-table, and busied herself with the
Russian coflfee-pot.

" Look around if you like, while I make it,"
she said, over her shoulder.

The room was done in dull greens and browns.
At one side was a piano, with a crowded music
cabinet beside it. On the wall were pictures,
photographs of paintings and statues of women,
Botticelli's Venus, and Ingres' Source, and some
of Rodin's. The lamp was supported by a
bronze girl, with a long, graceful body and flam-
ing hair. Dora took her shamed eyes to the
bookcase where, at least in the backs of the
books, there was nothing to appal her. So many
French authors, however, was suspicious — ^Mau-
passant, Bourget, Anatole France. Among the
English works were many on psychology and
sociology, and a few names, Edward Carpenter
and Havelock Ellis, turned up frequently.

"You read a good deal, don't you?" said
Dora.

She had been so thoroughly submerged that

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A WINGED VICTORY

evening that the sound of her voice was strange
to her,

" Not I,^^ said Constance. " I used to when I
was a Freshman, How do you like your coffee?
Strong and blacky the way I take it? "

Dora made no protest, but took her cup of
thick, dark syrup,

"Come and sit beside me on the couch, and
talk to me," said Constance,

" Well," said Dora, as she settled herself Turk
fashion, " I'd like to ask about the men. Who
is Mr. Brown? "

" Bobby Brown? He's a graduate student and
helps in the English Department, of which he is
the pride and joy. He knows the town, and
something about art and music, and likes to be
decadent."

" I thought Mr. Brown very kind and rather
amusing," said Dora, politely.

" You think I want to talk about men," said
Constance, suddenly smiling. " I don't. I don't
care a primeval curse for the whole sex. Je suis
feministey tres fiministe. I mean that I like
women a lot better, and find them a lot more
worth while."

Dora laughed. " It was stupid of me," she said.
*' But you were talking at dinner about getting

up dances, and that sort of thing "

"Oh, that's because this is a coeducational
school. That puts a false standard on every-
thing. Success among women means winning
out with the men, and vice versa. But honestly,

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A WINGED VICTORY

the man I like best here is Leverett Baymond,
because he won't have anything to do with the
college girls. He's a perfectly good kid — ^that
boy."

" But don't you believe that men and women
ought to associate together in college, widening
each other's point of view, and that sort of
thing? "

Dora quoted earnestly the sentiments of Miss
Peaks on this subject.

"Not on your life," said Constance. "That
is, I believe it's better for girls to go to a col-
lege like this where they can have some freedom
to lead their own lives, — ^and we could not have
that if the men weren't here. But even so, most
girls are happier in a woman's college. And
for the men, coeducation is detestable. It mixes
up their lives. Either they are left out of every-
thing, and are morbid and unhappy — ^and lots
of the girls are that, too — or they see too much of
us and get somehow overripe while they're still
green."

" But surely it's better for boys to see girls of
their own class naturally and simply than for
them to do — well, the things they do sometimes."

"No, it isn't. Education and romance are
two different things, and they ought not to be
mixed up. If they go on at the same time, the
boy is stale for life afterwards. Coeducation
spoils more romance than it makes. But I don't
know why I am lashing myself into such a fury
about it when I don't care for the romance or for
the men either."

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A WINGED VICTORY

"But you want romance sometime, don't
you? '' said Dora, timidly. " You want to be mar-
ried — and have children? '^

She was so far below all this! She thought
that her voice sounded like a little girPs,

"I should like to have children. That's the
shameful part of our subjection — that when we
want so little of men we have to give up every-
thing to get it, and if we balk at the price we
go without, or it's made worse for us than if
we did. If women ran the world we'd put all
the males to death except a few, as the bees do."

" But," cried Dora, flaming in her turn, " you
wouldn't kill your own boy babies, or have them
killed? "

Constance looked at her with sudden gentle-
ness in her face.

"No, I suppose I shouldn't. Not even if I
knew it was best for the world and for our
glorious sex. That's what it is to be a woman.
We always betray ourselves somehow, some-
where. We can't escape our fate. Have some
more coflfee? I'll make some fresh."

" Oh, no," said Dora, " it's very late. I must
go to bed."

"It's half-past four," admitted Constance.
" Well, let's have another cup, and a shower, and
then you shall sleep here. If you go upstairs
without an alarm clock you will never wake.
You'll find that couch made up under the cover."

" I ought to tell you," said Dora, while Con-
stance deftly turned the coffee-pot, " that I don't
agree at all with you about coeducation and that

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A WINGED VICTORY

sort of thing. I think men and women ought t(
be together, to help each other, to inspire eacl
other."

" Oh, you're not bound to agree with me.
am tired of people who agree with me. I likec
you at first sight because you were different, anc
looked independent."

Constance poured the coffee, drank hers off a
a swallow, and began to undress.

" A cold shower is worth an hour's sleep anj
time, and we'll have two baths and three hou«
— ^that makes five in all. I'll take my shower first
as you haven't finished your coffee."

" Wouldn't you like me to go into your bedroon
while you undress? " suggested Dora, a little ill
at-ease.

"Not a bit. Perfectly good body. I don'i
care who sees it. I always thought Qodiva a
greatly overrated lady."

She threw on her bath wrap and strode off.
Dora lingered over her coffee until Constance
came back, rosy and warm, and kissed her.

" All right," she said, " I'm off. Mind you, gel
a good souse or that coffee'll keep you awake
Good-night, little Puritan."

152

CHAPTER II

Co began Dora Glenn's youth. After her dim
^ years of repression and solitude, the days at
the little, semi-country college seemed to bum
each with a flame of its own. To begin with, she
shared to the full the serious young American's
faith in education, and the superstitious regard
for all the practices and ceremonies done in its
name. Then she was more mature and better
prepared than most of her class. She found her-
self able to undertake more advanced courses,
which brought her some intellectual excitement,
and companionship with older students. More-
over, her friendship with Constance Dare taught
her all the approaches to life which the Western
metropolis could offer. Constance was an in-
veterate seeker after miscellaneous experience
and interest. She took Dora to hear the orches-
tra from the solitude and semi-darkness of the
gallery of the great auditorium; and they went
to all the exhibitions of arts and crafts, oils,
water-colours, illustrations, furniture, brass,
pottery and book-binding. Constance loved to
play the role of initiatrice into the mysteries of
the arts as well as those of life, and Dora was
^ger to follow. It was her first case of heroine-
worship. While she was under the spell she was
content to be obedient, grateful, adoring. She
Was like a plant which from the cold and dark-
^^ess of the cellar is transplanted into the warmth

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A WINGED VICTORY

of spring, and a garden of sunshine. And if
Constance was occasionally ready to shine for
her the whole twenty-four hours, Dora, like
Joshua, had need of the midnight sun.

But Dora's spirit was too active to remain in
a state of utter dependence. She began to realise
that she liked Constance best where they were
most nearly equal, out of doors. They took long
walks on the lake shore or out into the prairie,
and in their endless talk about things present
and things to come, Dora found her own keen-
ness of insight and her freedom of speech much
greater than amid the artifices of suggestion and
stimulant of Constance's room.

Dora's early life had made her apt for athletic
sports, and though she had never had a racquet
in her hand, she soon became rather proficient
on the tennis courts. Still, Constance was too
well practised to be beaten by a novice.

" I'd like to find something to do," said Dora
one day, " that I could beat you at. I'm tired
of being second-best. When it's winter I'm sure
that I can show you some things about skating
and coasting. I used to play baseball at recess
with the boys at Prairie Grove, and if there was
a girls' team here I should be a star. But then
you wouldn't play. You never do anything that
you can't do well."

" Nonsense," said Constance. " I'll accept any
challenge from you."

" Well, I believe I can beat you at swimming.

Linda and I used to be in the water half the
time in the summer."

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A WINGED VICTORY

'*A11 right, come on/' agreed Constance.
^LeVs take a tramp up the shore to-morrow
afternoon, break into some deserted bathing-
house, and then swim out into the lake as far as
we can. ^ And damned be she that first cries,
Hold, enough ! ' ''

The next day was cold and bleak, with a strong
wind blowing. " Bully football weather,'^ Con-
stance remarked, as with their towels and bath*
ing-suits skilfully dissimulated they started on
their preliminary tramp. It was a long one, for
they passed a number of settlements before they
discovered a bathing-house that was remote
enough to afford seclusion, and yet could be
broken and entered. Dora was half hoping that
the conditions could not be fulfilled, and that
they would have to abandon what she now saw
was a foolish feat, when suddenly they came
upon the ideal spot, — sl shed at the bottom of a
wooded ravine leading down to the shore. The
door was loosely nailed up and yielded to a
strong pull. They were soon ready.

As they ran down the beach, Dora said firmly :

" Now, / shall know when I have swum as far
as I can, and get back to shore, and I hope that
you will. I shall give up at that point, and it's
only fair for you to promise, honour bright, to
do the same."

"Yes, that's right,'' said Constance. "Ugh,
how cold ! We shan't go to sleep in this water."

There was a strong current setting from the
northwest; the water was black except where
the slanting rays of the sun gave it a steely

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A WINGED VICTORY

gleam; the receding shore with its hard, white
line of bluflfs topped by leafless trees, looked
curiously harsh and forbidding.

" I feel as if we were putting forth from the
Antarctic Continent,^' said Constance. " I won-
der why it is that the Antarctic is so much more
frightful in suggestion than the Arctic? I sup-
pose it's the old horror of the antipodes."

Dora did not speak except, after a few minutes,
to point out that they were drifting south-
ward.

" We must head up into the current,'^ she said.

"Head on,'^ said Constance.

The struggle with the waves became more se-
vere, and Dora, measuring her strength, knew
that she was nearing her finish. As she paused
to tread water, she saw that Constance was
swimming more weakly, with short, spasmodic
strokes.

" Remember our promise at starting, Connie,''
she said.

" I haven't got to yet,'' responded Constance.

Dora set her teeth, and swam on for a few
minutes in silence. It was not her place to give
in. But another look at Constance conquered
her resolve.

"I've had enough,'' she said, shortly.

" No," exclaimed Constance, brokenly, " I give
up. You've won, Dora. I can just barely make
shore from here. I may have outstayed my
strength a little, but I think not You may have
to help me at the last gasp, — unless you're all Ib
yourself. Then don't bother."

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A WINGED VICTORY

■

Dora went over on her back, and for a while
both swam steadily shorewards without a word.
Then Dora turned, and was horrified to find how
far they still were from land, and how far south
of their starting point.

" Looks pretty bad, does it, Dora? " asked Con-
stance, without turning.

" We'll do It," said Dora.

The sun was gone entirely now, and the cloudy
dusk was coming in around them.

"It's horribly lonely," remarked Constance.
" What absurd little puppets we are, up against
Nature. It's a most undignified thing for her
to have us about, daring to be conscious of her.
That's a Godiva situation that appeals to me, but
it's too big to be treated in lady-finger poetry."

"Oh, dear Constance, be quiet, do," begged
Dora.

" I think I'm going to be — soon," gasped Con-
stance, as a wave broke over her head.

Dora swam close and turned upon her back.

" Put your head on my breast. Now you can't
sink. Swim as little as you like. I'm not tired,
much.'^

" Csesar and Cassius," gurgled Constance.

Dora wasted no breath. Stroke after stroke
she planted firmly, but her headway seemed as
nothing. Constance was a dead weight. Dora's
own arms were heavy ; and as for her legs, she
hoped that they were doing duty somewhere, but
she had lost consciousness of them. The water
that ran from her shoulders was like lead ; and to
its weight seemed added that of the immitigable

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A WINGED VICTORY

sky, with its two banks of smoke above Wauke-
gan and Chicago.

" Truly, Dora, you'd better drop me,'^ said
Constance, weakly. " We needn't both drown."

"Drown?" echoed Dora. Yes, she remem-
bered that she had foreseen that possibility at
the start, and a few moments ago at the turning,
but since then she had forgotten death. The
pain of swimming so encumbered, in the gloomy
water, toward the savage coast, made it suddenly
pleasant to think of letting go all at once. But
she knew that she could not. What would hap-
pen then was unthinkable: it simply could not
be any more than the ending of the world.

"Hold on, Connie," she said. "It's only a
little way now."

And at last Dora, putting down a tired foot,
felt bottom, and in a moment she had draped
Constance, now nearly unconscious, ashore.

It was only after some minutes of vigorous
massage that the latter was able to stand, and
then they were a half mile from their bathing-
house — cold, with a bitter wind blowing. But
Constance set forth bravely, and in time they
won the shelter of the ravine.

"Quick," said Constance, "my flask. It's in
my clothes somewhere. You first, Dora, you
dear child. It's fifteen years old, aged in wood.
Now the towels. Good Lord ! how good I ^eel !
I don't want to dress. I just want to sit around
and look at you. You are lovely there, your
body gleaming white in the light, and going
off into the shadow like a Henner. Only I for-

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A WINGED VICTORY

got You don't like to be reminded that you're
anything but a spirit."

" Come, dress yourself, Connie," commanded
Dora. " You'll have a chill."

"Not I. What a bore that it's too cold to
lie on the sand. See here ! Let's leave these wet
suits and towels here, strike across country to
the railroad, and go into town for dinner. It
will be too late for food at college. We can
telephone to some men to join us, if you like,
but I think it would be better to go it alone."

" Much better," agreed Dora.

They made for the railroad, and followed it
until they reached a station.

" Constance, I haven't any money with me,"
exclaimed Dora, as they approached the ticket
ofllce.

" That's all right," said Constance. " I can
give a dinner in honour of my rescue."

" No, we'll share it to-morrow. But have you
enough — are you sure? "

" Sure," responded Constance.

On the way into town they discussed the din-
ing possibilities of the city.

" We might try one of those chop sooey places
on Clark Street," suggested Constance.

Dora seconded the proposal, thinking that the
restaurant would be cheap and obscure. But on
second thought, Constance decided that her res-
cue demanded the best food in town, and de-
clared for Bennet's.

They took a cab at the station, and were
bowled up to the entrance beneath the sidewalk,

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A WINGED VICTORY

which admitted them to the dazzling room, so
low that floor and ceiling seemed coming to-
gether to crush the throng making merry be-
tween. They found a table with some difllculty,
and Constance delivered her order.

"We'll have Shrewsburys on the shell, and
turtle soup, and broiled live lobster, and a
couple of birds, and a Macedoine salad, and oh,
some sauterne, and will you send the head waiter
here please, at once? "

The head waiter came, and Constance smiled
upon him.

" I'm sorry," she said, " but we are obliged to
throw ourselves on your hospitality this even-
ing. We haven't a cent. We're students from
Western College, and if you like to telephone
to Mrs. Crossett, the matron, you can be as-
sured of our high moral character and financial
responsibility. Here is my card. Please send
the bill to this address."

The head waiter looked at them with obvious
discomfort.

" It's very unusual," he said, " for ladies to
come in here without escorts."

" Oh, no, it isn't. I see dozens of ladies com-
ing in without gentlemen."

" Yes — ^but " he noticed their walking

dresses and dusty boots with some reassurance.
" Don't you know anybody here to refer to? "

" Why, yes," returned Constance, brightly. " I
know you. You're Mr. Billings — the head
waiter. You remember everybody who dines
here, and you've seen me here dozens of times."

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A WINGED VICTORY

Billings' lantern jaw set itself in lines of
severity.

" That won't do," he said. " I'm afraid ^"

But just then Dora, whose eyes had set them-
selves at his bidding to look over the room, ex-
claimed :

" Why, there's Linda ! "

" Saved," murmured Constance. Then she
turned to Billings. "Fortunately, my friend's
sister is here with a party. We shall not need
you further."

Dora had already risen, and was making her
way to the table where Linda sat with a young
man and an older lady — to Dora's relief, not
Mrs. Henderson. As she walked over she
thought how very handsome Linda had grown.
Her ample blonde beauty was brilliant in even-
ing dress, and she carried her head so high that
she gave the effect of slenderness. She was speak-
ing very vivaciously, and Dora, not to interrupt,
stood at her side for a moment. The young man
opposite, however, had his attention distracted
by her apparition, and Linda, pausing, looked
up and saw her.

" Why, it's Dora ! " she cried. " I haven't seen
you for an age. I thought you were at college.
What in the name of all that's strange are you
doing here? "

" I am at college," said Dora, " but my friend
and I were out walking and were too late for
dinner at the hall, and so we came in to town."

It was a hard position for Linda, had Dora
known it. She was dining with Nicholas C.

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A WINGED VICTORY

Melledge, and his mother, whom it was her ob-
ject to make forget that she wras John Qlenn^s
daughter, and Dora was rather a powerful re-
minder of her antecedents. However, after a
brief mental review of the situation, she gra-
ciously introduced Dora to Mrs. Melledge and
her son.

" My little sister, out on a college girPs lark,
it would seem," she explained, airily. "Who's
your friend, Dode? Where are you sitting? "

" Over there against the pillar. My friend is
Miss Dare — Constance Dare."

" Ah, I've heard of her," said Linda, levelling
her lorgnette.

" I shouldn't have broken in upon you, Linda,
but the fact is, we haven't any money."

" And no escort," said Linda, severely. " Dora,
haven't you the slightest sense of what is
fitting? "

Dora flushed.

" Ask your sister to send her check over to me.
Miss Glenn," put in Mr. Melledge, gracefully.

Dora flushed more deeply.

"We don't want that," she said. "Only if
Mr. Melledge would kindly tell the proprietor
that we are all right, and that he will get his
money to-morrow "

" I shall be honoured to do so," said Melledge.

" It is doubtless all right now that you have
been seen talking to us," suggested Mrs. Mel-
ledge.

"Well, I hope they are taking notice," said
Dora, " and I am very much obliged to you."

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A WINGED VICTORY

" Stop a minute, Dora," said Linda. " You're
really at Western College? Aunt Bella and I
are meaning to drive out to look you up some
afternoon, but we are just back from the coun-
try. We'll be out soon."

Dora said that she should be glad to see
them.

" Permit me to escort you back to your table,"
said Melledge, rising, and when he had seated her
he went to speak to Billings.

That night, once more, Dora felt the tempta-
tion known specifically as " the world." It was
perhaps the fact that she was getting this taste
of it surreptitiously, it was possibly the bril-
liantly massive figure of Linda opposite her in
the high light of luxury, that gave such poign-
ancy to the suggestion that it would be a good
thing to have always at command delicious food,
and noble wine, and generous service, and an
interesting background.

" Do you know, Constance," she said, " that
sometimes I think that the only thing I really
want in life is a good time? "

" That's something a woman can always get,
if she's passably good-looking," said Constance.
"Your sister, for example, seems exceedingly
well equipped. Ugh, if I had only had a bomb
when she put her glasses on me! To do that
was like shooting down an unarmed man. Would
you change places with your sister, Dora? "

Dora looked at her with startled eyes. The
words brought vividly before her that Indian
summer afternoon years before, when she had

163

A WINGED VICTORY

drawn her lot in life, — ^and all that had been
since.

"No, indeed, I wouldn't change with Linda
for anything," she exclaimed, with so much feel-
ing that Constance looked at her with surprise.

"At bottom you're a thorough Puritan," she
said. " Are you good friends with Linda? ''

" Oh, yes, only I don't meet her often. She
says that she's coming to see me soon."

" Look here, Dora. Won't you get her to come
to our Christmas party — the club's? It would
be a great card for us — the men will be crazy
to come to meet her."

"Well, I'll ask her," said Dora, without too
much conviction.

The Melledge party were rising now, and
Linda stood back to the two girls as her escort
held her opera cloak.

" Her back is the finest thing in its way I've
seen in years," said Constance, judicially.

Linda, her wraps adjusted, turned about and
came swiftly across to their table.

"Take care of my little sister, Miss Dare,"
she said, without waiting for an introduction.
" Who would think of you're being such a mad-
cap, Dode. What a gorge you girls are having !
I shall leave a cab outside to take you to your
train."

Dora expected trouble, but Constance smiled
sweetly.

" That's so good of you, Miss Glenn. We ore
on a bit of a spree, and you're an angel to pull
us through."

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A WINGED VICTORY

Linda smiled all around, and went away.

"Nasty, patronising thing," said Constance.
" To think of her leaving a cab for me ! I'm glad
of it though. It saves us from putting up an-
other bluff, and there^s no more patter, patter
for little Connie to-night. That's sure. But
since our future is secure we may as well enjoy
the present."

She ordered ices and liqueurs, and they lin-
gered over the aftermath of their feast until the
restaurant was nearly empty.

" This is absolutely what I like," said Con-
stance. "We've had an afternoon such as two
men might have. And now, as the result of a
little daring, we are in possession of the world
as a man possesses it — free to eat and drink —
we can't smoke, unfortunately — ^and we haven't
any man to thank for it."

" Mr. Melledge," suggested Dora.

" He's not a man so far as we are concerned
— he's only an accident. He won't happen
again — not to us. It makes me furious that a
woman can't go anywhere without a man to say
^ Open sesame.' At least, the only women who
can are courtesans. They are the only women
of the world."

" Now, Connie, you know that that is non-
sense. If the waiter had believed that we were
college women, he would have let us stay — ^and
he only doubted it because you put that in about
being here dozens of times and knowing him
so well."

" I rather overdid it," admitted Constance.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" But a man would have jollied him just that
way and got what he wanted, and made Billings
his friend for life. That's what makes me so
angry — the freemasonry among men by which
they keep the world for themselves. A woman
thinks she gets into it by marrying, but she is
utterly fooled. Her husband never loves her
enough to betray his sex. And she is merely dis-
armed. She gains nothing, and loses the only
weapon by which she might gain anything."

" Well," said Dora, " she gains what she mar-
ries for — her husband — ^her part in his life — ^and
her family, her children."

"But she loses the world," responded Con-
stance. " The only strategic position from which
she can take it is chastity. Only then she has
the whiphand of the situation. But you can't
get even intelligent college women to see it."

"I should think not," said Dora. "If I
thought that going to college would make me
want a husband and children — ^as many as I can
have — less than I do, or make my chance of get-
ting them worse, I'd leave to-day."

" You needn't be afraid. Your chance is as
good as Linda's of transmitting your virtues to
the next generation. But you'll never conquer
the world. There is only one instant in which a
woman is all-powerful — ^before she has given a
kiss, a word, a look even. And that reminds me
that I've something to show you."

Constance fumbled in her pocket and produced
a crumpled sheet of note paper which she tossed
across the table.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" I got it this morning," she said.

Dora smoothed out the manuscript. The hand-
writing gave, on the whole, an effect of evenness
and smoothness, but when looked at closely it
showed numerous little breaks and waverings.

" It's a lettei*, isn't it? Do you want me to
read it? "

"Yes. It won't make any difference."

So Dora read:

" Dear Miss Dare :

" You will not know the name signed to this
note. You do not know that I am a member of
the same college as yourself, yet such is the case.
I am from Covington, Ky., a stranger here, with
no friends. I do not care for that except that
it seems to make it impossible for me ever to
become acquainted with you. And I want to
know you. I should like to talk to you, to listen
to your voice, to be with you for a few minutes,
sometimes. But if that is more than I can
hope, it would be something if you would say
good-morning, or even bow to me. I always see
you on the stairs at nine o'clock, as you go to
the political economy classroom. To-morrow I
shall raise my hat. I hope that you will bow to
me. " Yours most truly,

"Vance Sterling."

"Well, what do you make of it?" said Con-
stance, impatiently. "Doesn't that bear out
what I said one day about some men getting
morbid and spoiled just because there are a lot

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A WINGED VICTORY

of girls around? I've seen a boy on that stair-
way all this year, devouring me with his eyes."

" What are you going to do about it? '^ asked
Dora, still scanning the letter.

" If he were worth punishing, we'd have some
sport out of it; but as it is I shall refuse him
everything, even a nod, as the only way to go
on reigning in his heart."

" Constance ! " As Dora looked up h$T eyes
were full of tears. " You won't be so cruel. I
think that is the saddest letter I ever read. He
says he is a stranger with no friends, and that he
doesn't care — that shows how very much he does
care. And he wants to know you, — such a little
thing he asks. I can't help thinking how lonely
and wretched I should have been here if you
hadn't been kind to me."

" But don't you see, Dora, that in his case the
kindest thing is to shut him oflP, straight? "

" No, I don't. I think the only kind thing
is to treat him like a human being. And you
shall, Constance."

Constance pushed back her chair with deci-
sion.

" If we lived in the water, Dora, I should obey
you. That's your realm. But on land I shall do
as I like. Your sister will be coming back with
the after-theatre crowd, and she mustn't find us
here quarrelling. Moreover, the fare on that cab
has run up to huge proportions. I must have a
cigarette though." She signalled to the waiter.
" A whiflp of tobacco in the cab will lend its last
fragrance to the day."

168

CHAPTER III

THE next morning Dora went over to the
recitation building with Constance. As
they passed the main entrance there was the
usual distribution of court favour and recogni-
tion, and Dora thought again of the boy who
was waiting on the stairs above. She could not
believe that Constance wouW be so heartless as
to cut him, but she knew that it would do no
good to attempt to plead his cause. They swung
through the corridor and up the stairs. As they
mounted, Dora had a rapid impression of a tense,
eager figure awaiting theih — of a pale face, out
of which shone great, desiring eyes. Constance
was absorbed in talk and laughter. Dora prayed
that the boy might see in time that it was of no
use, that he might not commit himself in the
sight of the world, but as they passed he took
oflf his cap. Dora herself returned the bow.

" What do you mean by stealing my man? "
said Constance. "Dora, you are insatiable. I
told you that I particularly valued his worship,
and meant to be always sure of it.'^

" I couldn't help it. It would have been too
dreadful for him to stand there before everybody
and bow into empty air."

" Not at all. If he had the soul of a trouba-
dour he'd stand there for four years, taking oflf
his cap every time I passed. That would be like

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A WINGED VICTORY

Budel and the Lady of Tripoli. Then on the
last day I should give him one smile, — * one last
gold look/ ''

The next morning at breakfast Constance re-
newed the subject.

"Are you going to continue to appropriate
my troubadour, Dora? "

" He won't be there again,'^ said Dora. " He's
learned his lesson. I only made it easier for him
—that's all."

" Don't you think it. He had a hungry look
— he won't be satisfied with a mere bow."

"Well, if he bows to you again, I shall let
him."

As they mounted the stairs Dora was acutely
conscious that the boy was there, and as he
lifted his cap, still timidly, it was evident that
his great, grey eyes, curiously still and deep and
watchful in his mobile, nervous face, were for
her alone. So Dora bowed and smiled a little.

"Oh, my fond one, shallow hearted; Oh, my
Rudel — mine no more," chanted Constance, when
they had passed. " I congratulate you on your
conquest, Dora. He has nice red-brown hair,
a whole shock of it, dull finish, which is best for
a man. It looks, though, as if it grew at the
expense of his face — ^sapped its strength some-
how."

Dora hoped that since he had transferred the
acquaintance to her, he would find other means
to carry it on than the meeting on the stairs;
but the next day, and the next, he was at his
post, always saluting gravely — and Dora nodded

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A WINGED VICTORY

back with as much easy friendliness as she could
assume. It was more and more an effort. She
felt, with an irritation that was partly generous,
that he was making himself ridiculous, as well
as creating a difficult situation for her,— one
which gave Constance a never-failing opening.
If he would only come up and speak — ^anything
except this silent homage.

One morning Dora started out earlier than
usual, thinking that she might anticipate her
cavalier, but he evidently took no chances. They
were alone on the staircase, and Dora lingered a
moment at the top.

" Good-morning," she said. " Do you have a
class next hour? I seem always to meet you
here."

" Yes," said the boy, " I always wait for you."

And then, before she could follow up the sub-
ject, he bowed again, and went away down the
stairs and out of doors. From a window on the
next floor Dora could see him striding across
the campus.

"I'm sure he has a class this hour," she
thought, "and now he's cutting it. I couldn't
have frightened him so much as that. He must
be terribly unused to people."

After that morning, however, she made a point
of speaking, when opportunity offered, and
Sterling's shyness wore off to the extent of per-
mitting him to enter the elementary stages of
social intercourse. But Dora never saw him
talk to anyone else, and his loneliness troubled
her. The great football match of the season was

171

A WINGED VICTORY

approaching, and Constance inquired one day
if Dora expected Rudel to take her.

" I wish he would/' said Dora. " It would do
him good to get a little enthusiasm for something
that other people care about."

That year Western won the game; and the
night after there was a big bon-fire on the campus
to which the team was drawn on a tally-ho, and
feted with speeches and songs and cheers. As
the students surged about in the red light of the
flames, Dora saw Sterling near her on the out-
skirts of the crowd, merely watching, not lifting
up his voice, even when Leverett Raymond's
name was cheered. A movement of the crowd
brought her near him, and she inquired
brusquely :

" Why don't you cheer, Mr. Sterling? "

"Why should I? It's an absurd game and
makes brutes of the men who play."

"No it doesn't," replied Dora, hotly. "At
least not of all of them."

" Do you like that man they've just cheered,
the one who's bowing? "

"Very much. He's my oldest friend," said
Dora, happily proud.

" I've seen you walking with him," said Ster-
ling. " I hate him."

As he spoke he looked full at Dora, and she
saw the light of the fire reflected in little red
flames in the depths of his eyes.

"You've no right to," she answered, indig-
nantly. "He's never injured you, and he's a
splendid fellow. He was kinder to me once than

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A WINGED VICTORY

anybody ever was. Why do you say such
things? ''

" I beg your pardon," said Sterling. " I — the
words just slipped out. I suppose I hate him
because he can be kind to you and I can^t. Will
you go to walk with me, some day? "

" Yes, I will," answered Dora, " but you must
promise to like my friends."

" They're not likely to give me a chance," said
Sterling, bitterly.

"Yes, they will. You shall know Leverett
Raymond, and Constance Dare "

" I hate her, too," said Sterling, watching
Dora's face.

" And Mr. Brown," she went on, trying to seem
unconscious.

" I like him now," said the boy. " He's the
only one here except you who has anything to
do with me."

" I like him, too, very much. How did you get
to know him? "

" He has my themes in English, and he lets
me come up to his room and read my stuflP to
him."

" What do you write? " asked Dora, respect-
fully.

" Poetry. But when can I go to walk with
you ? To-morrow ? "

" Yes, not too early — ^about five, I like to go
out."

The fire had died down to red eimbers, and
the tally-ho was being drawn away to the gym-
nasium.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" You can take me back to the dormitory now,"
said Dora.

"Thank you, I shall be glad to,^' responded
the boy, gravely.

Dora felt that she should turn the occasion to
account in some way, and as Sterling had given
her a lead, she said :

" I can't see why anyone should be lonely here
with the fraternities and clubs/'

" I don't belong to any," he replied. " I'm an
anarchist."

" Oh," said Dora, somewhat dashed. " Of
course you see the other men at commons."

" I don't eat there. I'm a vegetarian."

Dora felt the hopelessness of her effort to min-
ister to a mind so diseased.

" Everybody joins the Young Men's Christian
Association," she ventured.

" I am an atheist," was the answer.

Once more, after a pause, Dora attempted an
opening.

" What kind of poetry do you write? "

"Love poetry, mostly," answered Sterling,
quite simply.

The rest of their walk was silence.

Dora was convinced that the boy was in a
bad way, but she had a remedy. The next morn-
ing at breakfast she told Constance that she
wanted her to invite him to the Christmas
party.

"Dora," replied Constance, "you know how
painful the subject of that young man is to me.

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A WINGED VICTORY

Since yon have taken him from me, yon might
at least have the tact; to avoid talking abont him.
I suppose that yon want to flannt yonr trinmph
in my face at the dance."

" Don't be absurd, Connie. He needs to have
a chance to live like other people, to meet others,
and get interested in what interests them. Now
do help me."

" Well, yon get Linda Glenn to come, and the
party's yonrs. I turn it over to you a perfect
success. You won't spoil it with a dozen mel-
ancholy troubadours who can't dance."

"I think I'll have to write to Linda," said
Dora. " I don't know just how to put it — ^the
invitation."

" Tell her that it will make your reputation at
Western if you can produce the famous beauty.
Miss Linda Glenn. That will fetch her."

Dora, however, was spared the necessity of
diplomatic correspondence, for that afternoon
Mrs. Henderson and Linda came to see her. They
were in fact inspecting her room at the moment
when Vance Sterling called, and Dora had to
send down word that she was engaged.

" What was the name of the young man,
Dora? " asked Mrs. Henderson.

"Sterling, Vance Sterling. He's from Ken-
tucky, Aunt Bella."

" There is a young man here that I should like
to have you know, — ^Mr. Raymond's son, of
Henry Raymond and Company. I must get
Mrs. Linderfeldt to ask you to her house some-
time when he is to be there."

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A WINGED VICTORY

" I know Mr. Raymond very well," said Dora.
^^ I used to go to school with him at Eggles-
ton."

^^ Indeed," commented Mrs. Henderson, '^ a
most desirable acquaintance."

" Is he a good fellow, Dora? " asked Linda.
" His pictures in the pajiers after the game were
stunning. Why didn't you invite me to the
game, Dora? "

" I didn't think you'd care for college things,
Linda, but if you think you could stand it there's
a party I'd like to have you come to on December
23rd, — ^the Christmas dance of the club that I
am going to join. It will be a great card for me
if I can pose as Linda Glenn's sister."

"That's right in the holidays," grumbled
Linda.

" I'd like to have Leverett Raymond meet you.
He has been very good to me, and I want to do
something for him."

"Oh, well," conceded Linda, "of course I'll
come to help you out."

Dora was sorry that she had had to break her
engagement with Vance Sterling. She meant to
explain the matter next day when she met him
on the stairs, but for the first time he failed
her. She lingered a moment in the hope that
he might come late, but he did not api>ear then
nor any day thereafter. However, she wrung
from Constance an invitation to the club party,
and made sure that his acceptance had been
received.

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A WINGED VICTORY

Dora looked forward to this Christmas party
with a good deal of girlish expectation. It was
to take place at one of the semi-country clubs
near the college. The afternoon of the day Dora
spent with Constance decorating the rooms and
tables with Christmas green, and planning the
tseating of the guests at dinner.

** At our table," said Constance, " we'll have
Mr. Brown, your sister, Johnny Baldwin for
Vera, Vera herself, Leverett Raymond, you, and
Eudel."

" That brings Mr. Sterling next to you," ob-
jected Dora.

" Well, what of it? Once he was not insensible
to my charms."

Dora wished at heart that she could be at
another table altogether, but Linda's coming
made that out of the question. She insisted,
however, that Linda must have Leverett on one
side, and thus secured a rearrangement that took
Vance Sterling out of Constance's direct line
of fire.

" It's too bad," she thought. " I have to give
up Leverett altogether ! "

She hastened home to dress, and- came back
early to the club-house, in much anxiety for the
success of her combination. Fortunately, Lev-
erett was on time, and she sought him out im-
mediately.

" I am going to ask you to take care of my
sister, — ^Miss Linda Glenn, one of the great
beauties of the North Side," she said. " You've
seen her pictures often in the Sunday supple-

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A WINGED VICTORY

ment, and she has seen yours on the sporting
page, so that you won't need to be introduced/'

"What do you mean, Dora? I came to see
you," protested Leverett.

" But you're the only man I know well enough
to ask to take care of Linda. Do see that
she has a good time, and doesn't feel that she
is at a country merrymaking. You can do it."

Sterling came a little late. He was very quiet
in his greeting, and merely bowed politely when
Dora told him that he was to take her out to
dinner. Linda kept them all waiting, but at last
she arrived, and the march to the dining-room
was begun.

As they sat down Leverett shot at Dora, from
under scowling brows, a glance that perfectly ex-
pressed his opinion of her arrangement After
that, however, he devoted himself with com-
mendable vivacity to Linda's entertainment. He
drew in Constance and Mr. Brown from his side,
and Linda from hers drew in Vera Cross and
her companion, so that in a moment six boats of
the eight were afloat, and bobbing pleasantly on
the surface of the conversation. Dora and Vance
Sterling were somehow left behind. Dora tried
her best to move him, but he seemed stuck fast.
At last, with a regretful glance after the others,
she began the tete-&-tete that she had intended to
bring on later in the evening, by giving the de-
ferred explanation of her broken engagement to
walk with him.

" I hoped you would come again and give me
a chance to tell you how it was," she finished,

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A WINGED VICTORY

"but I suppose that you have been busy like
the rest of us with Christmas and examinations.'^

" No, I haven't/' he responded. " You haven't
seen me because I realised that I was making
myself a nuisance to you, — ^and I stopped."

" But you weren't, — ^at least, not by taking me
to walk. Why should you put such a construc-
tion upon a mere accident? " said Dora, a little
indignant. It was as if he did not believe her.

" I'm sorry," he said, " but I thought you were
offended the night before by what I said about
your friends. You had a perfect right to be."
His eyes left hers to glance at Constance and
Leverett. " By the way, may I ask to be intro-
duced to them?"

Dora's cheeks grew hot, and her hands, cold.
It was such a terrible thing to have omitted ! She
wondered why Constance had not prompted her.

" Of course," she replied, mechanically. " How
fitupid of me ! I beg your pardon." And all the

time her ears were busv with what the others

were saying, trying to detect a break in their con-
versation; and her eyes were going about the
table, appealing from Constance to Leverett and
from Leverett to Linda. If only one of them
would look at her and catch her signal of dis-
tress. At that moment help came from Mr.
Brown, who sat at her right.

** What state do you come from. Miss Glenn? "
he asked.

She did not stop to reply.

" Please, Mr. Brown," she said, " will you in-
troduce Mr. Sterling to the others, as soon as

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A WINGED VICTORY

you can? I forgot when we sat down that he
doesn't know anyone at the table except you."

"Certainly/^ He raised his voice. "Miss
Dare, Mr. Sterling says that he has not met you.
May I introduce him?"

He went on around the table. When he had
finished there was silence. The fire had been put
out. Everybody waited conscientiously for the
newcomer to light it again. Dora was m, an-
guish for him. Would he find nothing to say?
At last he was speaking, in a high-pitched, un-
sure voice.

" Thank you," Mr. Brown, he said. " Excuse
me if I am a little overcome. This is the first
time since I left Kentucky that I have been in-
troduced to anyone."

It was an impossible remark from every point
of view, and made with such emphasis that no
one could take it lightly. For the moment, how-
ever, Dora was grateful that he had said some-
thing. There was another pause; then Con-
stance said :

"What a pity that the rest of us are such
slaves of convention. Why don't we know any-
body we wish to by just manifesting ourselves to
them anywhere? "

There was more laughter at this than the in-
nocence of the remark seemed to call for. Ster-
ling leaned forward :

"Was that question addressed to me. Miss
Dare? "

Constance did not refuse his challenge.

" Why, yes. Perhaps you can tell us how to
do it"

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A WINGED VICTORY

A fierce flush covered the boy's face, and
passed, leaving it dead white.

" I haven't the least idea what you mean," he
said.

It was a stupid falsehood. There was no
doubt that everybody at the table, except Linda,
knew it as such. Dora dared not look up from
her plate, though Brown was speaking to her
again.

" So, I infer that you are from Kentucky, Miss
Glenn? "

There was more laughter at this. Constance
came to the rescue.

" Oh, yes. Dora and Mr. Sterling were play-
fellows and schoolmates in old Covington."

" That is not true," said Sterling.

The lie direct is an appalling thing. Dora re-
membered that Sterling had said that he was an
anarclust. She wished that he had thrown a
bomb, or would drop one now. She was con-
scious of the amazement in Linda's eyes, the dis-
gust in Leverett's, the sheer naked wrath in Con-
stance's. To what refinements of cruelty re-
venge would carry the last Dora could only con-
jecture. Gradually, however, the situation ap-
parently cleared itself. Vera's mechanical social
sense drove her to occupy herself with Sterling;
Dora continued with Mr. Brown ; and the others
picked up the ends of talk where they had
dropped them. But the dinner party was, as
Constance said afterwards, like a deflated bal-
loon. As soon as she could she gave the signal
for moving.

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A WINGED VICTORY

As they went out Dora was with Sterling. He
spoke quickly :

" Before I go I wish to beg your pardon. Miss
Glenn, for what I did at dinner.'^

His voice was metallic, but his face was work-
ing nervously, and his eyes were those of the
tortured. Dora could not be angry in sight of
his misery.

" It's all right. It was my fault. But you
mustn't think of going,'' she protested.

" Yes, I don't dance, and I should only be in
the way."

" Not in the least. All the girls like to sit out
dances occasionally. Stay and sit out the first
dance with me."

The music was beginning. Sterling hesitated.

" Come," said Dora, " let us sit here among the
Christmas trees."

She sat down invitingly, but Sterling con-
tinued to stand, looking down at her.

" I wish I might ask," he said, in his carefully
frigid voice, "why you invited me here to-
night?"

" Why, certainly. I wanted to see you, and I
thought you would like to come and meet my
friends and have a good time."

" You did not ask me then because I had writ-
ten an idiotic note to Miss Dare, and you wanted
to make a fool of me? "

" It is perfectly outrageous of you to think so,"
exclaimed Dora, hotly.

"But you knew about it?" he insisted.
" Everybody there knew about it"

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A WINGED VICTORY

His eyes held hers firmly, but his face was
quivering with nervous anxiety.

" Yes," said Dora, slowly, " I knew about it,
but I certainly did not think of it when I invited
you."

" How did you find out? Did she read the
letter to you? " he went on, breathlessly.

" I saw it, and I did not think it at all idiotic.
It is perfectly natural that anyone should wish
to know Constance."

" When did you see it? "

" The night she received it, I think."

" Then that is why you bowed to me the next
morning!^' exclaimed the boy, his white face
flushing to his hair ; " and why you let me bother
you, and why you invited me here— not because
you were in any way drawn to me — only because
you pitied me."

" No," said Dora, earnestly, " I think it was
just ordinary human friendliness that made me."

"I suppose I ought to thank you," groaned
Sterling. " The least I can do in return for your
kindness is to let you enjoy your evening. The
first dance is over. Good-night."

Sterling's departure left Dora without a part-
ner. She waited in her comer until the next
dance was under way : then she went to join the
group of patiently enduring chaperons.

There Leverett rushed up to her.

" Where were you, Dora? " he asked, reproach-
fully, " when we were filling out our programmes?
Vye saved three dances, and I hope you haven't
them taken."

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A WINGED VICTORY

Dora showed him her blank card.

« What! " he exclaimed. " Didn't that fellow
attend to it? What a cad! I ought to have
punched his head right after dinner, only your
sister would have thought that it was a country
frolic. Dora, he's certainly the extreme limit ! ''

" Don't, please, Leverett," begged Dora. " Mr.
Sterling didn't mean to stay. He doesn't dance.
It's no matter."

"I should say it did matter — ^to leave you
without a partner at your first dance. Hold on.
I'm going to have this filled out if I have to stop
the music, and rearrange the whole show. I'll
take four dances myself as commission."

" No, Leverett. Really I don't care, and it
would make it worse to have a fuss now. I'm
going home with Mrs, Cross. She's to leave early.
I'll give you the dances that you saved for me,
though. Is this one of them? I'm glad of that."

Dancing with Leverett made Dora forget the
misfortunes of the evening, but when the music
stopped he brought them up again.

" Dora, that fellow must be an ass. You were
wonderful at dinner, in your white dress against
those green shadows. And he leaves you this
way ! I don't see how he could do it Say that
you're done with him, Dora."

Dora was too much preoccupied to enjoy Lev-
erett's admiration.

" No," she replied. " He'll be terribly cut up
about it all. I'm very sorry for him, and I'm
not going to say that I am done with him — yet"

184

CHAPTER IV

DORA knew that she had not done with Vance
Sterling. She felt the failure of the evening
as her own, and she hoped to retrieve it somehow.
As the days passed, and Sterling gave her no op-
portunity, her sense of responsibility did not
grow lighter. She could put herself perfectly in
his place. That she knew of the absurd thing
that he had done, would rankle in his heart.
Moreover, he had said impossible things —
things that he would remember in an agony of
humiliation and self-reproach. He might think
liiat she was mortally offended on account of
his final rudeness, when he became conscious of
it. Once, for an instant, he had let Dora see how
slight were the strands that bound him to the
human society around him. If he fancied that
one of those strands had parted, what might he
not do? She thought this out quite simply and
without egotism. She — they all — ^must convince
him of their friendliness ; but with the most gen-
erous disposition toward him she could find no
way to help.

Her own life that winter was very full and
very gay. There were dances innumerable, sleigh-
rides to various country resorts, tobogganing and
skating. The great lake was frozen for twenty
miles from shore, and Leverett Raymond had an
ice-boat. He relaxed his masculine prejudice so

185

A WINGED VICTORY

far as to admit Dora and Constance as passen-
gers, and their nerve fully justified them in the
eyes of him and his crew.

One fierce morning, as Dora went to her early
class, she found Leverett waiting for her.

"Come on,'* he said. "The ice is going to
break up with this wind, and we'd better get a
sail while it lasts. I don't care if we rip the
stick out of her — and we probably shaU. It's
a forty-mile hurricane, if it's a zephyr."

And Dora, conscientious, loyal Dora, did not
even suggest waiting an hour for Constance, but
cut her classes and went. As she flattened her-
self under the boom, clutching the cleats with her
frozen hands, watching the shore reduced by
their speed to a mere wash of white, she thought
that her life had come to a new and higher peak
— perhaps the very highest of all with a precipice
on the other side, for the ice-sheet was certainly
tearing itself loose, and the bending mast might
go at any moment. Yet as she looked at the f^e
behind the wheel, the square jaw, the lips set in
a hard line, the eyes and brow from which the
clouds seemed to have been lifted and blown
away, she felt strangely safe and glad. She
had never seen Leverett so contented, so much at
peace.

As they sailed back, Dora kept the lockout
for open water. Twice they rounded dangerous
bays, and near shore a strait opened before them
which she could see no way of avoiding.

" Hold hard," cried Leverett ; " we'll have to
jump it"

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A WINGED VICTORY

For a second the boat soared like a bird. A
moment later they were at the landing, and Lev-
erett was helping her to walk on her stiffened
feet.

"You^re a good girl, Dora,'' he said, very
gently.

From that day Dora felt great respect for Lev-
erett's life, though according to the academic
standards of Western College, it fell short even
of mediocrity. She had wondered sometimes how
he justified himself: now she began to under-
stand, and yet she was still curious.

One evening late in the winter she and Con-
stance went to a dance given by Leverett's fra-
ternity. Dora had passed the Alpha Tau Epsilon
house once or twice, and had admired the gener-
ous aspect of the mansion standing back from the
street, with wide piazzas shaded by great trees.
This night it was ablaze from porch to garret.
Leverett and Brown met them at the door, and
showed them about. First, there was the big
living-room with a wood fire roaring at one end,
the fire-place fianked by two oak settles.

" That's where the seniors sit and smoke after
dinner," said Leverett, " and the rest of us kids
squat around and hear of the glories of Alpha
Tau."

They looked into the wainscotted dining-room,
where the chapter of twenty-five sat down to din-
ner at the long table ; and into the library, with
its walls banked with leather-bound books, ex-
cept where the bay windows opened on the
veranda.

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A WINGED VICTORY

^* Well, what do you think of it? ^' eaked Lev-
erett, proudly.

"I think it is almost — ^well, romantic,*^ said
Dora. " It's the only thing in college life, at
least in the West, that makes you think that/^

"That's right," said Brown. "The fraterni-
ties grew out of the romantic spirit that made the
French Revolution. Liberty, Equality, Frater-
nity : we've kept the first and last terms of that
catchword. And in spite of their nonsense, the
fraternities keep alive the poetry of education —
and pretty much all the civilisation.'*

" Don't you want to look upstairs? " asked
Leverett. " It's all open to-night"

The music was beginning in the large room;
the others were moving toward it, but Dora
answered :

" I'd like very much to see your room.'*

" All right," returned Leverett ; " come on."

It was the abode of a Spartan. A narrow, iron
bedstead stood in one comer; in another a se-
verely uninviting desk; an ungenerous bookcase
broke the expanse of one wall, which was bare of
pictures, except athletic and theatrical photo-
graphs.

But all about were the implements of Lev-
erett's life, and trophies of it — ^his guns and
fishing-rods, an ice-axe, two footballs with scores
marked in white, cups, medals, and banners, also
inscribed. On the fioor was a grizzly bearskin,
and between the windows, the head of an elk.
Dora drew a long breath.

" I should like to know about all these things,

188

A WINGED VICTORY

Leverett. It would be next best to doing things
myself."

"I^d like to tell you and show you how to do
them, too," replied the boy warmly, as they went
down.

They paused on the landing that interrupted
the wide sweep of the staircase, and looked for a
moment at the dancers who overflowed into the
hall.

" I know nearly all the men," said Dora, " but
who is that tall one with Vera? "

" That^s Father Horton. He's a graduate now,
but he comes around a lot. He's our father-con-
fessor. There hasn't been a man in the chapter
for five years who hasn't gone to him to have his
kinks taken out. He can do anything for a fel-
low — straighten him out, and start him right,
and get fair play for him. Did you ever hear
about that awful row that Jack Connor got into
last year? Well, never mind. Father Horton
went right to the President, told him the whole
dam story, and asked him to let Jack stay. The
President said, ' There's just one thing I want
to ask you, Mr. Horton. Are you willing to trust
the freshmen in your chapter with Connor? '
*Yes, sir, I am willing,' says Horton. And he
told Connor that, and now there isn't a straighter
chap in college than Jack. He thinks if a fel-
low goes the least bit wrong it's his fault, and he
almost cries over it. I guess you know all the
others: they're a grand lot."

" I should think that you would be perfectly
happy, living with them. I should think that

189

A WINGED VICTORY

you would be entirely satisfied with your col-
lege/*

^^ I am, when Fm here in the chapter-house.
Then I'm with my own family, and it's like home.
But outside there are a lot of fellows, grinds and
muckers, that I don't care for, and a cheap lot
of girls. Of course, there are Constance and you
and your crowd — ^but for the most part the col-
lege outside this house is just a barren desert"

"A barren desert." The words echoed in
Dora's mind, as she thought of one trayeller in
it who might now be dying of thirst

Later in the evening, at supi)er in the great
oak dining-room, Dora found herself seated be-
side Brown. It occurred to her that here was
the other strand that bound Vance Sterling to
the world, and she wanted in some way to warn
it to strengthen itself for the strain. Brown him-
self gave her the chance.

" I suppose you know that your fellow-towns-
man, Mr. Sterling, has been pretty far down? "
he said.

" No," said Dora, " I hadn't heard. Do you
mean that he's ill? "

" He got run down and took cold, and now he
can't get on his feet again. He seems utterly
discouraged, and ready to throw up the sponge."

Dora knew perfectly well why Vance Sterling
was ill. She had reasoned it out in her own
mind, and knew it must be so. She reproached
herself for not having acted long ago, when she
saw so clearly. An impulse came to her now to
send him some message by this only line of com-

190

A WINGED VICTORY

manication that was open, to assure him that
everything was all right — that nothing mat-
tered.

She began, " I don't know Mr. Sterling much.
He isn't really a fellow-townsman of mine. That
was a joke of Constance's."

Brown's pale eyes rested on her with a lambent
light of humour in them that she could not mis-
understand. Of course, he knew the whole story.
She could not commit herself further in the light
of his mocking eyes, though that was apparently
what he was inviting her to do.

" He's quite a genius," he was saying, " but
utterly without command of himself — rudder-
less. He's a poet — a sort of pseudo-Swinburne.
He has done some marvellous things for a boy.
He used to come around and read them to me —
I)oor chap ! "

Brown's voice was kind, but Dora did not trust
him. She was angry with him for knowing what
she was angry with Constance for telling. She
could guess how they had laughed over it, as
Sterling had divined. The world seemed in a
conspiracy of mockery against one man who
dared to take himself seriously — so pathetically
defenceless he was against them, and so terri-
bly nerved to suffer. She fancied that her mes-
sage would be another arrow in Brown's quiver,
and that it might wound, even if the victim were
unconscious that he was stricken. She made up
her mind that she would get Leverett to help her.
In spite of his intolerance, she could trust him.

It was harder than anything that she had ever

191

A WINGED VICTORY

done — 80 it seemed — ^this a^ing Leverett Bay-
luond to go to see Vance Sterling. She waited
until the very last dance. Then she complained
of being warm, and suggested that they go out
on the veranda.

" All right," said Leverett, a little astonished.
" Here's somebody's coat — if it won't muss your
frock?''

She thrust her arms into it recklessly.

"By Jove, Dora, you look just like a boy!"
said Leverett, appreciatively.

" I wish I were one."

"You? What for?"

" Oh, there are some things I'd like to do."

" You shall do them, Dora. I'll help you to."

" Will you really? Because I'm going to take
you at your word. There's one thing I want you
to do for me."

She hesitated, and refused the leap.

"Leverett, what do you think the others —
those out there in what seems to you like a barren
desert — ^get out of college? "

" Oh, they get what they pay for, I suppose."

" But doesn't it ever seem unfair that you and
your friends should have all this," — she made a
gesture toward the house with its radiant win-
dows, — " and they, nothing? "

"Well," said Leverett, "I think the fellows
that get left generally deserve it."

" But it can't be true always that those on the
inside are all good fellows, and those on the out-
side not."

"No," conceded Leverett. "I wouldn't say

192

A WINGED VICTORY

that. I don't know many of the fellows who
aren^t in the fraternities. Some of them are all
right, only they don't naturally belong to the
crowd that gets things.''

Dora pondered this for a moment. Then she
said:

" Leverett, I wish that you would look up that
boy, Vance Sterling. He hasn't any friends here,
and now he's ill."

"What! Do you mean that fellow that you
brought to the Gamma Nu dance ; that made that
ghastly break at dinner, and then told Constance
that she lied? You don't mean him! "

" Yes, I mean him," said Dora. " And it's just
because he did those terrible things at dinner
that some of us ought to see him — to make him
feel that they don't matter, and that everybody's
forgotten them. He's terribly proud, and you
can fancy how they've preyed on his mind until
he's ill, and Mr. Brown says he's going to leave
college — or die, I don't know which. Suppose
he was a freshman in your fraternity "

" Oh, Lord ! " groaned Leverett.

" And had got into a mess like that. Someone
would see that he was put right again — someone
like that graduate you spoke of. Father Horton.
But really, Leverett, he hasn't a friend."

" But if he's a freshman he has an adviser,"
said Leverett. "And there's the dean for just
such cases — the dean could sew him up all right.
I should only be butting in. How did you come
to be so mixed up with him? I thought I should
die when he said that he hadn't been introduced

193

A WINGED VICTORY

to anyone since he left Kentucky, after being so
thick with you that everyone at the table was
noticing it. Say, did you ever know that he
wrote a note once to Constance asking her to bow
to him, or something? "

Leverett looked at her sharply, but she met his
gaze with clear eyes.

" Yes ; I knew about that. Constance showed
me his letter, but I can't see how she could have
shown it to anyone else. It was through that
letter that I came to know him. When Con-
stance let me see it I felt terribly sorry for him.
And I tried to get Constance to nod to him, and
when she wouldn% and he stood and took off his
hat there on the stairs — I bowed to him. And
after that I spoke to him,^ and got him invited to
the dance. So I'm responsible for everything—
and I've made the trouble and done him all this
harm — ^and I want you to help me out."

Dora ended breathlessly, almost in a sob. For
a moment there was no sound from Leverett.
When he spoke his voice was strangely low and
gentle, as it was sometimes :

" Of course, I'll do anything you tell me to,
Dora. To think of your doing that — picking him
up, I mean, to save him from getting hurt! By
Jove, what damned brutes— excuse me, Dora.
What do you want me to do? "

" Just go to see him, Leverett — ^and — ^he won't
like you at first "

" Certainly not," said Leverett.

" But you must try to like him, a little. And
make him feel that you accept him, at least as

194

A WINGED VICTORY

. hnman being. And Leverett," — Dora had an
aspiration — "maybe he wants to talk to some-
ody about this foolish trouble, and if he
oes, let him, and make him feel that it's all
ight."

" Oh, Dora,'' protested Leverett, " I'm not the
ind of fellow to do that — like Horton."

"You'd talk with other people about it, and
augh at it," said Dora. "And that's probably
that's killing him. And you ought to talk with
m about it, if he wants toj I mean."

"That's right," said Leverett, soberly. "I'll
[0 to-morrow. Do you want me to report to
ou? "

"No. Of course you'll do the right thing, if
ou once get interested in him. And please don't
ver tell Constance or anyone that I asked you
go."

"I won't tell a soul," said Leverett. "And
ow, let's cut out philanthropy, and go in for the
1st extra."

Dora danced out the party happily enough.
Tow that Leverett had taken the matter in hand
lie felt relieved of a great responsibility. She
^as almost ready to forgive Constance for talk-
ag about his letter, and she spoke quite mildly
n the subject when they reached home. Con-
tance looked confused.

"That was a caddish thing to do," she said.
' But I didn't show it to anyone but you, and I
-old a few. Somebody had to apologise for his
iaily appearance, and insanity was the only plea
that would wash. But truly, I am conscience-

195

A WINGED VICTORY

stricken about Rudel, and I mean to be good to
him if he ever gives me a chance."

Although Dora had told Leverett that he need '
not bring a report of his mission, she was glad to
see him waiting for her one afternoon with in-
formation in his glance.

" Well," he began, " I went to see your man.
Sterling. He's not such a bad sort, but awfully
shy and reserved. He's sick abed with tonsilitis,
or bronchitis, or something. He lives in a horri-
ble place — not so poor, but awfully comfortless.
I couldn't get much out of him — except one
thing. He wants to see you, Dora."

" Did he tell you so? " asked Dora, startled.

"No, but he let me see it. He asked me at
once if you sent me, and when I was going he
told me to thank you for your kindness, because
he was afraid he shouldn't have the opportunity.
He's going back to Kentucky soon."

" Oh, he mustn't do that," said Dora, quickly.

" So I told him — ^but he didn't say much.
Really, Dora, he won't talk to me. It's no use."

" But I can't go to see him— can I ? "

" Yes, I think so. Get one of the girls to go
with you, you know."

" No. You must take me, Leverett."

" I ? " Leverett laughed. " He won't care for
that."

" But you know where he lives, and are prob-
ably the only person who has been there, so he's
a bit used to you. You had better take me.
Shall we go to-morrow? "

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A WINGED VICTORY

"Why not to-day, then?'^

So they turned inland, away from the college,
and after traversing several blocks of mean
streets, paused before a three-storey apartment
house, to the upper front room of which Lever-
ett led the way. It was large and bright, but, as
Leverett had said, desperately comfortless. The
oilcloth, of hideous pattern, the cheap bureau
and bed and chairs, though reasonably clean,
somehow lent themselves to the general effect
of untidiness. Sterling was sitting by the win-
dow, wrapped in his overcoat, looking very thin
and ilL His hair was more than ever incon-
gruously bright and luxuriant above his wasted
face. He was writing as they entered, but he
made haste to put his papers out of the way, and
half rose.

Leverett pushed him back into his chair.

" Stay where you are, old man,'' he said, and
Dora was surprised at the easy intimacy which
he could assume on such short acquaintance. " I
got Miss Glenn to come to see if we couldn't
make you a bit more comfortable."

" It's very good of you," said Vance, quietly,
but his calm, clear eyes were like two stars in the
troubled, grey sky of his face. " I was hoping
that someone would come — ^and I didn't know
anyone else to hope for — so naturally I hoped
for you."

This was said with great simplicity, appar-
ently to both of them, as he put out his hand. To
Dora, who had always seen him under the strain
of timidity, or violence, or excited self-conscious-

197

A WINGED VICTORY

ness, he seemed very winning. She asked how
he was getting on, and when he would be out
again. Then there was an awkward pause, broken
at length by Leverett, who had somehow got him-
self to the other end of the room.

"Taking your medicine regularly, old man?
This bottle doesn't look like it. Let me fix you a
dose, now that I'm here."

His clattering of the glasses gave Sterling a
chance to say, in low tones:

" I wanted to tell you that I was sorry I made
such an ass of myself the other evening. I am
going back to Kentucky next week, or sooner.
I'd like not to have you think of me as altogether
a fool.''

" Oh, you surely won't go back to Kentucky —
not if you are well enough to stay," said Dora.

" Yes," he answered, sombrely. " I've spoiled
my chance here. I haven't done any regular
work — I didn't know how to. I've been on proba-
tion since Christmas, and this illness has cut me
out of my mid-year examinations. I can't make
up my back work, and if I fail this year my uncle
will throw me over anyway."

" But what will you do if you leave? "

"Go into my uncle's distillery and make
whiskey. That's my family trade."

" Oh, don't," urged Dora. " Stay and fight it
out. There are people who are interested in you
— who will help you. There's Mr. Brown. Why
don't you talk it all over with him, and let him

[vise you about your work, and straighten
out at the office? It's — it's almost cow-
to give up at the first defeat."

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A WINGED VICTORY

" It isn't cowardice," he said, slowly, flushing
under his grey pallor. "It's disgust, I think.
It isn't only my college work, but everything else
that's gone wrong. I wasn't used to being with
people. I lived with my mother on the planta-
tion until she died, and my uncle promised her
to give me a chance at college. He's kept his
promise: I haven't. I have been so incredibly
foolish, and everybody knows it I see a leer on
every face I pass," he went on, bitterly. " People
make some excuse for sin, but never any for silli-
ness."

" I understand what you mean," said Dora,
quickly, "but only a few know — ^and you can
conquer every one of them. You must make
them your friends, make them proud to be."

" You think I can do that? "

" Of course you can. You have Leverett Ray-
mond, and Mr. Brown, and me, already. Con-
stance is ready to like you, and Vera Cross. You
can make Mr. Baldwin adore you ; and my sister
— she doesn't know. That the other night was
nothing to remember."

" But I shall always remember it," said Ster-
ling, after a moment. " Your pity was the most
perfect thing that ever came to me — ^and I
scorned it — tried to push it away. I couldn't,
really, though. I came home and wrote verses
about you all night "

" Oh, you shouldn't have done that," said Dora,
much shocked. " Now, I'm going to wash your
glasses and put you to rights a little, while Lev-
erett tells you what's going on at college."

199

A WINGED VICTORY

Hhe ba$9tled about for a few minntes nntil the
imperficial aspf^rt of the room soggested nothing
more that conld justify her actiTitr. Them she
lighted the lamp. It was time to go. As Lep^r-
ett was putting on his overcoat, Vance asked
her :

"Will yon come to see me again? ^

" Oh, I don't think so. Yon're so nearly well
that you will be at college soon."

" Well," said Vance, " I'll try it again. Anip
you needn't worry about me or pity me. I shan*t '
trouble you either — ^until I have done something
that deserves your friendship, that will make
me a little worth while."

200

-CHAPTER V

L7 ANCE STERLING kept his word. Dora
W heard some days later that he was out again,
Ht shg saw him never. As days and weeks went
y^ahe thought it strange that in a community
pi \We^rn he could so completely vanish from
j/fi paths of every-day life. It occurred to her
hat he must necessarily put something of the
ame insistence into avoiding her that he had
nee expended in meeting her. Meanwhile, what
he heard of him made a more effectual appeal to
er than his presence could have done. Lever-
tt spoke of him from time to time with a toler-
tion that slowly ripened through wonder into
omething like enthusiasm.

" He works like a nailer, that boy Sterling,"
e said, one day. " I ^as coming out late from
Own last night, and I saw a light in his window
nd went up. What do you suppose he was
oning at? Euripides. Just reading the * Elec-
ta ^ for the full of it, at two in the morning,
te means to write plays himself, he says.''

Or again : " I had Sterling out at Eggleston
ith some fellows over Sunday. I tell you, he
'as the life of the party. He told a lot of bully
iiories at night about Kentucky — ^the life in the
:>untry — ^just little things, but with edge to 'em.
[e pretty nearly had us all crying once — a story
bout a little nigger that got so fond of a mule

201

A WIXGED VICTORT

that when he had to go to the hoepitaQ he just
drew pictoreH of it all the time, tiring to show
people how that mnle looked. I tell too, Dora,
I'm getting to like him a lof

Then there came an affirmation from a higher
anthority.

Mr. Brown dropped into the seat beside her in
the train one day, and remarked :

"Do you remember that we were talking in
the winter about Vance Sterling? Well, wt
freshman has done a most remarkable lot ot
verses. Imitative, of course — ^full of reminis-
cences of Keats and Shelley and Swinburne, but
witii something of his own, too. I showed them
to Professor Ward a few days ago, and he was
taken off his feet — said that he didn't believe
that there had been such an academic meteor
since Swinburne.''

As Sterling made his way slowly into the circle
of college interests, Dora herself was withdraw-
ing from it. The end of the year was near at
hand, and she found that she had given a large
part of it to gaiety. She had much lost ground
to recover.

In these days she began, too, to consider her
future, or that part of it which was in her own

■

hands — her career. Sometimes she thought that
to gain a fellowship, to study in Germany, and
to return to teach in some college for women, to
spend her life in the peace of the modem cloister,
would not be a bad second-best On the other
hand, the movement of the life of the city
tempted her. She wondered if she would not

202

A WINGED VICTORY

live more fully in work that involved more essen-
tial contact with men and women.

She considered these possibilities with anxious
forethought, for she never forgot that another
life was somehow working out its thwarted pur-
pose in hers. Whenever she went to draw on
that little hoard of sacred blood-money, she re-
membered that vows had been made for her. It
was remembering this that brought her, one day
late in spring, to an interpretation of her future.

cc we^re going to dine over at an Italian place
that Mr. Brown has found, and going to the Yid-
dish theatre afterwards," remarked Constance, at
luncheon. " I promised Mr. Brown that I'd get
you to go, Dora. He's quite lyric about you.
He calls you * Bright Alfarata.' "

All this was pleasant to Dora's ears as a part
of the free humour of Western College. She was
glad to be distinguished by such a connoisseur
as Mr. Brown, and she was glad to be included
in the more esoteric gaieties of Constance's set.

There were six in the party. Under the lead-
ership of Mr. Brown they found a dubious resort
west of the river, and after punctilious inquiry
as to what was contained in the misto fritto, they
ate of it as cheerfully as they could, and finished
the meal with spaghetti. Then they took up their
line of march for the theatre. As they pro-
gressed, Dora's attention was lost to her com-
panions, and absorbed by the people about her.
The People ! It seemed to her as if, for the first
time in her life, she was really conscious of them,
really saw them. It was a warm evening, and

203

■\

A WINGED VICTORY

tliey were all abroad under the glare of the elec-
tric lights, re-enforced by the gleams from win-
dows of shops and by the torches flaring from
peddlers' carts drawn up along the curbstone.
The People! Men standing in groups with the
gaiety of drink upon them, or sitting, crouching,
alone in the stupor of weariness: women dis-
torted beyond human shape by toil and child-
bearing: everywhere the desecration of human-
ity, with which the fitful light played impish
tricks. But it was the children who drew Dora's
eyes — more than the others. There were shoals
of them at play like porpoises — on doorsteps, in
dark, foul entrance ways, in the gutters. Many
of them were perfect enough to outward seeming,
but often she caught signs of deformity, or ill-
ness — the crooked back, the bowed legs, the
squinting eyes, the crippled or shrunken limbs,
the cry of the baby with the fever of summer
already in its veins. The usual expression of
tlie children at play, in that fantastic light, was
one of eerie deviltry, but here and there was an
example of courage and loyalty that if it had
been shown in some hell with a name, like the
Black Hole of Calcutta, would have won its meed
of praise. It made her eyes ache with the tears
that she could not shed. A boy was teaching a
baby to walk on legs that curved to a circle. An-
other was dividing, with anxious scruple, a half-
decayed banana among five or six patient smaller
ones. Farther on a little girl, not four years
old, Dora thought, crossed the sidewalk. With
grave propriety she spread a newspaper on a

204

A WINGED VICTORY

dry place in the gutter, and there laid herself
down to sleep, her cheek against the cool curb-
stone. It seemed to Dora as if she could not pass
by — ^as if she must stay in that street so long as
there were children there — as if she must stay
to watch over that sleeping child. She remem-
bered Peter as he lay in the ambulance cot, his
face peaceful, his grimy little hands on the coun-
terpane. Her companions laughingly dragged
her on. They did not know, but she knew, the
secret of childhood. She and Peter had been
children like these about her, who in ignorance
and sorrow tried to help themselves and to help
each other, bringing a curse where they meant
to bless. It came to her that of all people the one
who could be truly good to them was the doctor
— for he only knew how.

This perception was Dora^s experience of the
evening. They went on to the Yiddish theatre,
to see the Yiddish Hamlet, performed by the
Yiddish Sarah Bernhardt, to what Brown called
a symphonic background of Yiddish smells.

" I beg you to notice. Miss Glenn,'^ he said,
"how the tragic force of Ophelia's position is
made more appealing by that tender little odour
as of sausage that comes stealing to our nostrils.
It must help the actors to get their values over
the footlights to have this palpable connection
with the audience. And why shouldn't the sense
of smell be as useful a vehicle of emotion as the
sense of sound? Of course, we could get only
broad effects, but there are low comedy smells
like the onion, and high comedy odours, like musk

205

A WINGED VICTORY

and civet ; and tragic smells from the stockyards,
and all the heroic ones of great wines."

Usually Dora thought Brown's flippancies
very amusing, but to-night she wearied under
them. He was laughing at the people whom she
had learned to pity, and his chatter broke in on
her mood with the jangle of blasphemy.

The next fall, when she returned to college
after the summer at Glenwood, Dora had de-
cided to be a doctor for children — ^the children of
the poor. She chose her work with a view to en-
tering the medical school, and went into the
laboratory with the zest that comes from a pur-
pose. She was chary of confiding it to anyone
at first, but Constance soon divined it, and was
warm in her approval.

"I knew that you^d find out that you were
too much of a person to be satisfied with the
hearthstone and the nursery,'' she said.

"No, I'm not," said Dora, stoutly. "But I
may never have a hearthstone. I've got to be
prepared for disappointment, you know."

" Yes," assented Constance, " that's the way it
comes. First we doubt if we can marry. Then
we question if we can marry just the right per-
son. Then we wonder if it is worth while to
marry at all. And then we don't. The only way
to be sure of marriage is to marry — is to make a
business of getting married quand mime as the
Europeans do, marry anything."

Dora did not tell Leverett what she was doing,
but one day, as she came out of her laboratory in

206

A WINGED VICTORY

the biological building, she ran upon him, look-
ing vaguely about in the corridor. She had on
her long apron, and Leverett surveyed her with
such open surprise that she took the initiative.

" What can you possibly be doing here? '' she
tsaid.

" I have a good reason. This is football season,
and they told me to take Physiology 1 as a ^ snap.'
I am trying to find out who the instructor is and
where the course is held. But you haven't. It's
just unholy curiosity to find out what is in other
people's insides."

• " No, it isn't. I am pursuing the professional
studies of the pre-medical course," said Dora,
with dignity.

** But you're not going to be a doctor, Dora ! " .
exclaimed Leverett.

"Yes, I am — a doctor for children."

** But women don't have to doctor children, ex-
cept their own."

" Well, it will be convenient to know how, and
a woman ought to have something else to think
of and work at besides her own children."

" That's some of that fool talk that Constance
is always giving out," he rejoined, in high dis-
gust. " Well, anyway, it'll be convenient to have
you to tutor me for my exam, next Christmas,
and after that you'll forget about it."

Besides her scientific training Dora thought
that she should get some knowledge of the people
among whom she was going to work. She made
several attempts to find the particular street
through which they had passed on their way to

207

A WINGED VICTORY

the Yiddish theatre, and though she was never
sure that she succeeded, she found substitutes
for it. It became a regular thing for her to go
for at least one afternoon a week into the slums.
At first she would only speak to the children,
give them bits of chocolate, play with them at
their games, or console them in their troubles.
One day she went home with one of them, and
there met the charity visitor of the district, who,
learning in what an unregulated fashion Dora
was expending her altruistic energies, took her
to a social settlement near by, which provided
a regular gymnasium for the proper training
and development of such powers — ^a place, at
least, where they could be exercised without
harm to the community.

At the Settlement they needed someone to take
charge of a club of young girls, which met once a
week early in the evening. Dora seized the op-
portunity with such enthusiasm that the dying
little club put forth new shoots, and promised to
blossom into a play on the Settlement stage in
the spring.

As she spent more time at the Settlement, and
tried also to keep up the miscellaneous interests
to which Constance had introduced her, Dora
had less time for the conventional round of col-
lege life. The change was viewed by Leverett
with some disapproval, and when Dora refused
to go to a dance because it fell on her club night,
he spoke his mind.

"But," protested Dora, "you know yourself
that you don't care for these college things — ^and
you cut them on any excuse you can flnd/^

208

A WINGED VICTORY

" That's all right, Dora/' said Leverett. " But
you have a good time at them, and that's what
you need. I'd like to see you the most prominent
girl in college after Constance leaves. And you
might be, but instead you go off to that con-
founded Settlement, where they talk socialism
and anarchy, and stir up strikes."

Dora was irritated by his contempt. She de-
fended her friends from his charges, but Lever-
ett would not be convinced.

" It's a bad place for you, Dora," was his final
word.

As winter advanced, Dora became much occu-
pied in trying to pick out a drama for her club.
She read a hundred silly plays provided by a
dramatic publishing house, and was in despair.
She finally consulted the Head of the Settle-
ment

"Why don't you ask Mr. Sterling to write
you one? " suggested Miss Standish. " He prom-
ised to do one for the Banyan Club, but then Miss
Smith was ill, and most of her girls have gone to
you, I think. You know Mr. Sterling, of course,
at college."

"Yes," said Dora. "I didn't know that he
came here, though."

"BEe teaches English to some young fel-
lows in the room under yours. He's there to-
night."

Dora remembered that as she had passed the
door she had seen men bowed over desks, but the
platform had always been vacant.

"Yes,'' said Miss Standish, "Mr. Sterling

209

A WINGED VICTORY

doesn't believe in sitting up and criticising. He
writes with the rest, and looks over their work
and lets them look at his. He has been very
successful.^'

That evening, as Dora passed the writing class
on her way downstairs, the door was open, and
half unconsciously she paused and looked in.
The room was full of young men, their heads
bent low over the desks, their faces contorted
with the agony of thought and expression as the
grimy, blunted fingers moved painfully over the
white paper. All were in their shirt sleeves, for
the hard-working, unpractised machinery gener-
ated heat — which reached Dora in waves as she
stood at the door. In one comer she saw Vance
Sterling's light head among the black ones. He
was working with a Jewish boy, so patiently and
quietly that Dora dared to linger a moment to
watch him. Suddenly he looked up, and saw
her. He rose instantly and came to her.

" Miss Glenn," he said, "do you want me? Is
there anything I can do? "

" Yes," she said, " I want you to write a play
for my club — the Little Neighbours — ^but they
are quite big girls."

« I'll do it," he said. " At least, I'll try to do
something that you will like."

They stood for a moment looking straight at
each other, as if there were more to be said.
Then Dora remembered that his class was going
on, thanked him, and hastened away.

The next week at the Settlement, Sterling
brought Dora his play.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" I hope that you'll like it," he said, anxiously.
" It's just a mediaeval thing, with a modern in-
tention. I call it *The Masque of Poverty,' or
* The Masque of Saint Francis.' If you think
it will do, I'll work it up a bit."

Dora decidedly thought it would do, and the
club was enthusiastic. After their meeting Dora
went down to ask Sterling to help them with the
assignment of parts.

" All right," he said. " I'll dismiss my class
a bit early."

" No. You needn't do that. Our meetings
are longer now that we have the play to work at.
Just come in when you can."

So the next week Sterling came, and after he
had heard the candidates read and had picked
out the interpreters of his roles, he and Dora
went back together to college.

" I had no idea that you were working here,"
she said, as they waited for a car.

" I knew that you were," said Vance. " I
saw you the first night that you came."

"And will you tell me why you didn't speak
to me? " demanded Dora. " And why you have
acted for a year as if you didn't know me? "

" I didn't feel sure that I did know you," said
Vance. " Our acquaintance last winter was so
false that I wanted it to stop. I thought that
if I did something really big and worth while,
that might save it, but otherwise it would be
better just to begin over again."

This high view of human relations was rather
beyond Dora. She was glad that the arrival of

211

A WINGED VICTORY

the car intersected their conversation at this
point

When she was fairly committed to the play
Bora first suspected the trying nature of her
task, and her own incapacity for it. The en-
thusiasm of the girls was not enough to lead
them to leam their parts without pressure from
the leader, and it was of no help at all in solving
difficulties of costuming, setting, and stage-
management. Ten days before the public per-
formance Dora saw herself at the end of her
resources of ingenuity, patience, and courage.
The play must not fail; nothing failed at the
Settlement. And yet from the present outlook
there seemed small chance that the girls would
do the play or themselves credit. She had put
off asking Sterling to come to a rehearsal until
at least the parts had been learned: now she
dared not delay. "Perhaps he will think that
we are so impossible that he will want to with-
draw it altogether," she thought.

Vance came to the rehearsal, and after watch-
ing a little, he said to Dora :

" I think it will go all right. It always looks
black at just about this point. But there are
some things that I can help you at — ^if you want
me to."

" Want you to? " exclaimed Dora. " I should
be more grateful than for anything I know.''

Then Vance took off his coat, and went to
work. He apparently knew a good deal about
the theatre, and his directions were full of au-
thority. Sitting on the back of a chair in the

212

A WINGED VICTORY

middle of the stage, giving his orders and re-
bukes, he seemed like the captain of a ship on
his own quarter-deck. And the crew obeyed him,
and adored.

To Dora the change in Vance Sterling seemed
at first a transformation. His quietness and
steadiness seemed to belong to a different char-
acter altogether. Then gradually, as she saw
him night after night at the rehearsals, she gath-
ered that the change was the effect of careful
control, of a strict guard which he seldom re-
laxed. His eyes seemed to have gained a closer
watchfulness of himself, a kind of furtive distrust
which constantly challenged himself and others.
After the rehearsals he and Dora always went
home together, but he never spoke of himself
or of matters at college. He seemed to insist
tacitly, that the acquaintance was limited by
their alliance in the present cause, and their
talk was persistently of the play — of the proper-
ties, the scenery, the actors.

On the night of the dress rehearsal it was mid-
night when they left the theatre, and the rush
for the last train left Dora tired to the point
of exhaustion. She could guess how weary Vance
was also: his eyes were dim, and his mouth,
when he smiled, drooped with a pathetic little
fall at the corners.

" I'm sure that it will be tremendously suc-
cessful," she said, "and that when you see it
to-morrow you will be a little repaid for all your
trouble about it."

" I shall be if you are satisfied with it," he

213

A WINGED VICTORY

saidy imre8i>onsiYeIj9 ^'but I shall leave the tri-
umph to you and the cast"

" What ! you're not coming yourself? "

"No, I don't want to get into the crowd, —
and I can't be of much more help to you."

" We shall need you as prompter," said Dora,
" but it isn't that. We all want to reward you
for helping us by doing just as well as we can.
The girls will act twice as well if you are there,
— and I shall enjoy it twicd as much."

"Of course, in that case, I shall come,'' he
returned.

His voice was still indifferent, but after a
moment he began more enthusiastically about
the performance, and Dora saw that his heart
was in it.

The next evening came the triumph. As Dora,
in the make-up room, heard the applause/ she
Was glad that Vance, instead of herself, was in
the wings with the prompter's book. When the
curtain had gone down for the last time, she
rushed up to the stage, to be surrounded by the
proud and happy cast, all talking and laughing
at once, telling of the dreadful fears they had
had, and of the happy thoughts by which they
had saved the production from ruin at this crisis
or that. It was delightfully intimate behind
the curtain which shut out the cheering audience.
They were calling for the author, the demand
sustained with cordial insistence from a certain
comer in which Dora herself had established her
claque. As she expected, Vance was making no
move to respond.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" It's gone fairly well," he admitted, " but
this excitement is just good-nature. They don't
know whether it is good or not — and I should
only make a fool of myself if I tried to tell them.
I won't go."

" You must, you must, you must," said Dora.

And after meeting her eyes for an instant he
went out in front, said thank you, and got back
again.

" I'm very glad that you did that. You de-
served it, you know," she said, for she knew by
his heightened colour and flashing eyes that he
had enjoyed it.

Vance frowned a little peevishly.

"Anyway, it's all over. Let's go home. We
don't want to stay to see any of these people, I
take it."

" Oh, just a few of them," begged Dora. " Con-
stance Dare is here, and Mr. Brown, — ^and I sent
my sister tickets, but I dare say she could not
come."

Vance searched her eyes, doubtfully.

" You're not a very deep person. Miss Glenn,"
he remarked.

"Well, neither are you," said Dora. "You
know you like it."

After the last week she felt that she knew
Vance well enough to be impertinent. He
looked a little vexed, however, at her penetration.

" Why didn't you bring Raymond? " he asked,
after a moment.

" Oh, Leverett has capitalistic prejudices," she
answered. " He objects to us over here for up-

216

A WINGED VICTORY

setting the social order. But come. I want you
to see my friends."

In the reception-room she led him straight to
Constance, who instantly assumed her most vivid
charm. Dora did not believe that Sterling could
escape from it, but a little later he appeared be-
fore her.

" I should like to take you home," he said,
"if you will let me, — unless you have planned
to go with the others."

" Why, I thought — can't we all go back to col-
lege together? "

" I'm tired of people," he said, resignedly. " If
you don't mind, then, I'll say good-night."

" No. Of course you must take me home,"
said Dora. " The others are going to supper
somewhere, and I don't care for that. I'll tell
them not to wait for me, and be back in a
moment."

As they went out together, Vance asked :

"Why won't you come to supper with me?
There's an all-night joint near here where a lot
of the Settlement people go for beer and sand-
wiches."

" I've just declined Mr, Brown's supper," ob-
jected Dora.

"But you won't refuse mine? This is our
last chance, — the end of this adventure at least."

She made no answer. She was thinking, as
they passed along in the late spring evening,
that this was the scene of her conversion a year
before. The street was as bright and busy as at
noon, with people swarming abroad. And she

216

A WINGED VICTORY

saw again the same sights, drunken, sodden men ;
toil-distorted women; children, playing impish
tricks on each other, or trying to bear one an-
other's burdens.

"You never told me how you dropped into
settlement work,'' said Vance.

*f Then it's because you never asked me," she
answered. " It was just this ! " She pointed
up and down the street. " When I saw it for the
first time, I made up my mind that I should
be a doctor for poor children, and I went to the
Settlement to learn about the people among
whom I was going to work."

They had reached the all-night lunch room,
where they found a table a little apart. Vance
said:

" That's why I come here. I want to know the
People, for I want to work for them, too. I want
to make songs for them — songs about their lives,
their dreams, their sufferings."

Dora felt her heart go out to him. As they
sat there, talking intimately, it was as if the
People belonged to them, were their own child.

" You will do that splendidly," she said. " And
you will make plays for them — ^like the Masque
of Saint Francis."

" I hope so," said Vance, " only sometimes I
feel that life is so much more a problem than
art that it seems a waste of time to write any-
thing but the simplest things — things that men
and women will sing while they are at work,
and that will give them hope for the new day.
Did you ever come across that sentence of Wil-

217

A WINGED VICTORY

liam Morris's? " He quoted it slowly and sono-
rously. " * If the cripple and the starveling dis-
appear from our streets, if the earth nourish
us all alike, if the sun shine for all of us alike,
if to one and all of us the glorious drama of the
earth can be presented as a thing to understand
and love, we can afford to wait awhile, till we
are purified from the shame of past corruption,
and till art arises again amongst people freed
from the terror of the slave and the shame of the
robber/ When I think of that, I feel that I am
more of a revolutionist than a poet."

Dora listened, rapt, carried beyond herself.

. " I remember that you told me once that you
were an anarchist,'^ said she. " I didn't know
that it meant — so much."

"1 was a silly boy then," returned Vance.
" But now if I am a poet at all I must believe in
something — ^and what is there to believe in and
hope for but the Revolution? In the past, poets
had romanticism, liberty, democracy. We laugh
at them to-day for their blindness. Now what
is left except the social Revolution? No one
can be a poet who is not a revolutionist — no one
else can have hope and faith and love.

"Yes, I think one can," said Dora, "not as
a poet, perhaps, but just as a worker. But,"
she added, hastily, " I don't understand very well
what you mean by the Revolution. I have read
very little. I thought of being a doctor for
children just because I have seen them suffer."

" The Revolution," said Vance, " is the de-
struction of all self-interest that makes a man

218

A WINGED VICTORY

put his own private good above the good of all
men — its destruction by persuading men that
it is a nobler thing to be a part of humanity than
one of a band of robbers, by shaming them
in the face of the world that they have
wronged ^^

"Ah, that is your work in your poetry and
your plays.''

"Yes, but there is something more — ^by kill-
ing them if they would lose their lives and their
souls rather than yield their plunder."

"Maybe,'' said Dora, gently, "but one must
choose one's own work. And one cannot per-
suade men to love and trust humanity if one
means to murder them, even as a last resort."

" I know that," said Vance, softly. " And I
try to keep from getting angry, so that I may
do my real work. I have been writing songs of
working people this winter. I'd like to read
them to you sometime."

" I should be very glad if you would."

Her eyes rested on his with a warm and vivid
kindness: in his there was a wilder light, that
to Dora seemed the gleam of inspiration."

" And I have other poems. I meant to make a
little volume of them before I came back to you."

" Bring them to me," she said. " I shall like
them all — ^at least because you did them. Be-
cause I believe in you — ^that you will do splendid
things,"

219

CHAPTER VI

DORA was disappointed that Sterling did
not come. She thought of writing to re-
mind him of his promise. Then she reflected that
he doubtless had arrears of work to make up on
account of the play, and that she could hardly
help seeing him at some of the final festivities
of the year. But her own plans were suddenly
cut off and forgotten. A telegram from the far
West, where her father had gone to look into
some mining properties, announced his serious
illness, a stroke of apoplexy, it was thought. She
should hold herself in readiness to go to him.
After days of anxiety she received a second de-
spatch from John Glenn himself, saying that he
was better, that he was at Glenwood, whither
she might come to him when it was convenient

John Glenn had run his course. Toil, the ter-
rible toil of the gambler, had killed him. At
fifty he was a mere shell of a man, the core of
him eaten out by the acids of life. Dora was
shocked at his wasted, ashen face, as with feeble
steps he came to meet her on the veranda at
Glenwood.

" Thank you, dear Dora," he said, " I^m glad
you've come. You needn't stay long, you know.''

" Of course I've come, papa, and I shall stay
as long as you want me to — until you're better."

"It won't be long anyway. But you don't

220

A WINGED VICTORY

have to stay until then. I've never done any-
thing for you except give you life. The least
I can do is to make no claims. I was of half a
mind to stay out there in Boise, but I love my
home, Dora." A ghost of the old mocking smile
shivered across his face as he looked over the
weedy lawns, and grass-grown paths and drive-
way, to the ruined stables. " And then I ought
to make some arrangements for you. There are
a few cards still at the bottom of the pack, and
something might turn up in the slush and the
boneyard, when they^re raked over, — if there
were anyone to do it for you."

" Let Aunt Bella's lawyer take care of those
things," said Dora, "and now don't think of
anything but getting well again. Have you seen
Doctor Bell?"

" He was here yesterday," said Glenn. " He's
a good fellow. Bell. I gave him his start. It's
decent of him, all the same, to give me my finish."

That day John Glenn went to bed, and did
not rise again.

" I haven't much strength," he said, " and Fd
rather put it in talking and reading the papers
than dressing and crawling downstairs. And
I've a lot of sleep to make up."

His talk was chiefly of his experience — of the
moves that he had made, and the chances that
he had taken; and the games that he had lost.
He had always before treated Dora as a child:
now he expected a comprehension that she could
not always give^ but her interest was keen and
her patience unlimited. Often his talk was of

221

A WINGED VICTORY

his famous battle in wheats when his enemies
had brought up re-enforcements from Odessa, and
the Argentine, and even from India, to beat him
in Chicago. That was the great day of his ca-
reer, when he stood in the Wheat Pit and sent
his dollars, conscripted from the banks which
were afraid to give him up, against the allied
armies of Armour and Morgan and Standard
Oil — ^and saw his exhausted money battalions
melt away, until his friends took him by force off
the field — like Napoleon at Waterloo. This was
his favourite story, for it was his greatest, but
there were minor adventures that came up from
time to time. There was the day when they
had tried to force him out of his holdings in
the I. O. & N., and he had sat in the grandstand
at the Western Derby, drawing checks which
he knew would go to protest unless Latakia won
— ^and the colt had made a bad start, but finished
first. And there was the contest for control of
the Bluff Alto Mine, when the last proxy, re-
ceived by telegraph, was counted against him
only after two men had been shot down.

All this took Dora back into her childhood,
and made suddenly clear scraps of talk which
she remembered, and occasions which had long
had the blur of unreality upon them. It was
very wonderful, this tale by a broken Othello of
his battles, sieves, and fortunes. John Glenn
seemed to gain consolation in running over them
endlessly, and Dora found a kind of inspiration
in them. They gave her glimpses of life in its
kaleidoscopic diversity, in its confused, intricate

222

A WINGED yiCTORY

movement that even so clever a man as her
father had failed to master. And she grew al-
most proud of him as she listened. It was very
fine, after all, that he had been able to keep one
temper unchanged through all that they had
done to him. Integrity of a sort he surely had,
complete, accomplished mockery — ^and now as
he lay dying, they could not wring a groan from
him, not a tear — only laughter.

But in the long hours when her father slept
or read, Dora was very lonely. Her life for the
past year had been so full that no reminiscences
would suffice for its present emptiness. Rather,
these tales, by their poignant suggestion of ac-
tivity, made her keener and more daring for the
race and the battle. She wanted to be up and
doing, to be cheering the victors. It wore heavily
upon her spirit, this long vigil in the tents of
the vanquished.

Once more on the limitless prairie, in these
endless summer days, alone with illness and
failure, Dora had a sense of repetition in life.
As she sat beside her father's bed, or prepared
his food or medicine, or went for her necessary
walk around the grass-grown race-track she
thought of herself as somehow compelled to play
always the same part, with different actors, but
on the same stage. The properties too were the
same — dishes whose cracks and nicks she remem-
bered from childhood — ^and the^setting, the prai-
rie burnt yellow to the horizon, save where it was
empurpled by the woods, or scarred by the untidy
village and the weather-tinted ice-houses, or

223

A WINGED VICTORY

cheered, in its sun-stricken pain, by the tender
smile of the lake.

The sense that life was repeating itself like
a refrain in a song came to her strongly one
afternoon, as from her window she looked away
toward Eggleston. But the road, lying in dusty
defeat between the parching corn fields, seemed
impotent to bring her anything that she wanted.
She thought of ^^Marianna in the Moated
Grange."

She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said.

Leverett was in Switzerland. She had on her
desk a letter from him, describing his ascent
of Monte Bosa.

" I wished that you were along, Dora," he had
written. " I got beastly tired of tramping in
the snow, and I was wondering what I had come
for, when I thought, ' Now Dora would like the
view, and that would be a reason for it.^ "

" Dear old Leverett," said Dora, to herself.
" I wish I could see him galloping up that road
now on Black Auster."

As she gazed, there appeared on the sky line,
where the road emerged from Spinner's Hollow,
a foot traveller, swinging forward with resolute
shoulders, a little bowed beneath a heavy knap-
sack. Dora almost laughed aloud. " This is
really my country," she thought. " I have a
power here. I make things happen."

Then she went down, to wait on the veranda
for Vance Sterling.

224

A WINGED VICTOEY

He came up presently, and Dora gave him her
hand a little shyly. She noticed that his eyes,
which had been dark amid dark shadows in his
pallor, were now light, like ashes in his brown
face.

" I'm very glad to see you, and I know why
youVe come," she said, " to read me your verses."

"Did you remember that?" he asked, radi-
antly.

"Yes, and I was disappointed, very much
grieved that you forgot."

"I didn't forget. Don't think that. But I
wasn't sure that you really wished to hear them
— that you weren't just paying me back for help-
ing you with the play. And while I was trying
to decide, you left college."

" You are a terrible suspecter," she said. " I
almost wrote you to remind you of your prom-
ise."

" I wish you had." He drew a breath sharply.
" I haven't a line of your writing to keep."

"I write stupid letters. If I had written,
you would have suspected me of something else.
And I had to leave college early to come to my
father, who is ill."

"Yes, I heard from Miss Dare. I hope not
dangerously."

" I hope not. He seems at times almost well,
only very feeble. I wish you could see him. He
would insist on your staying with us. But take
off your knapsack, and we'll have some iced tea.
How did you ever find the way here? "

" Easily enough. I have been here before."

225

A WINGED yiCTOEY

" Here? "

" Yes. When I was visiting Raymond once a
Eggleston he and I rode over — so that I kne^
the way. I am walking north into Wisconsir
to the lakes and the woods, and I couldn't g
by without stopping to tell you of a little succes
I have had."

" I am so very glad," said Dora. ^^ What i
it?"

" I have a poem in the Epoch. It's just oul
And the publishers have promised to bring ou
a book of poetry for me. But I haven't enougl
for that — and it seemed as if I couldn't do ar
other line without seeing you. So I had to come.

He opened his knapsack and drew out a littl
sheaf of manuscripts, and a single magazine.

"You can read this now," he said. "Th
others I'll read to you, for you don't know m;
hand very well."

Dora took the magazine and looked through 11

" It's on page four forty-three," said Vance
his hands trembling lest she should miss it.

" Oh, here it is ! " she cried, as she saw th
initials V. S. beneath the title, " The Winged Vi<
tory." Then she shut the book quickly.

"You shall read it to me with the others,
she said. " I would rather you did that. Come
Here are the tea and biscuits. We might carr
them along with us, after you've had a drink t
get the dust out of your throat."

They walked across the fields and a little wa;
into the woods, to a seat under an old cottor
wood tree.

226

A WINGED VICTOEY *

" This is like the picnics we used to have here,
— my sister Linda and my little brother and I
when we were children," she said, as she sat
down on the ground and leaned her head against
the tree.

" Did you come here when you were a child? '^
asked Vance, eagerly. " I wish that you would
tell me about it. I am trying to imagine you as
a little girl. How did you look?"

" Like most country girls, I isuppose. I had
my hair in long braids down my back, and I wore
short, ragged little frocks, and sometimes went
barefoot."

" Did you have freckles? "

" No," Dora laughed. " My skin was too thick
and too dark."

Vance was still standing in front of her, look-
ing down into her face and eyes.

"Your skin is wonderful," he said, almost
reverently. " It seems to be full of colour that
keeps coming to the surface in different shades
of pink and brown, and now the yellow sunset
gives it an olive tint. And your eyes are full
of light inside. Were they always as kind as
that — ^when you were a little girl? They look
at things more tenderly than any eyes I ever
saw."

" Well," said Dora literally, " they see a good
many things that I don't feel tenderly toward.
But you are going to read me your poems."

" Wait a minute. Tell me first about what you
did when you were a child — ^about your sister
and your brother. What were they like? "

227

A WINGED VICTORY

" My sister lives in the city. You saw her —
you may see her when you like, — ^but my brother
— Peter — I cannot talk about him now. Some-
time, perhaps, I will tell you. He died. But we
must have the reading or it will be too dark."

Vance threw himself at her feet and fluttered
the leaves of his manuscript.

" It seems a very little to have brought you —
after all. I dare say you think I'm making a
fool of myself. Tell me — ^aren't you laughing
at me? "

"No, no; really, really no," exclaimed Dora,
sitting up. " I want you to read them to me,
every line."

There were twoscore in all — sl few poems of
nature and country life; a number of sonnets
and lyrics celebrating the poet's passion for a
lady who was so vaguely drawn that Dora was
not bound to recognise herself, though the bold-
ness of the language made her uncomfortable;
and a final group of poems on the social crisis
and the approaching revolution. Dora thought
these last the best, and said so. Their simplicity
and realism, their true feeling for suffering, went
to her heart. There was a " Chant for the Dead
Anarchists" that seemed to her especially elo-
quent. Vance was disappointed that she did
not care more for the love poems.

" Wait till I have read you * The Winged
Victory,' " he said.

The sun had gone now, and the warm brown
dusk was gathering under the trees.

" You won't be able to see," said Dora.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" I know it by heart/' he answered, and he
recited it.

This was the longest of the poems, the prayer
of a Greek to the goddess on the prow of his
trireme, a rhapsody on girlhood and nature,
sometimes so intimate that Dora shrank as if
from a personal contact that seemed about to
enfold her, but instantly losing itself again in
the sea and cosmic things. The lines had a long,
sustained rhythm, and the poem rushed on with
the triumphant movement of the galley itself,
driven tumultuously through the water by oars
in the hands of men. Dora sat with her hands
clasped about her knee, her face uplifted into
the last of the evening light, her eyes bright but
far away. When Vance let his voice fall into
last cadence she did not move, as if unconscious
that he had stopped.

" You don't like it ! " he exclaimed.

Dora drew a long breath. " Oh, but I do, I
do! It's wonderful, and it's very lovely. It
takes me along, and up, and out of myself alto-
gether."

Her breast was heaving now and her eyes were
full of tears.

" It is you," said Vance, " and it is altogether
for you. I wanted to put your initials before it,
but I didn't dare."

" Oh, it is better so," said Dora. " There are
many, many women in the Greek's thought of his
Victory."

" No," Vance shook his head. " Only one. I
never knew any woman but you, — Dora."

229

A WINGED VICTORY

It was the first time that he had used her
given name, and Dora was acutely conscious of
its appearance in their relation.

"But I am not like a Winged Victory," she
said, hastily.

" The first time I saw you, you were like that.
You were going up along the lake shore. The
wind was beating your clothes back against your
body, but you were striding on into it. It was
a day in the autumn, two years ago."

" It may have been the day Constance and
I went out to see which could swim farthest.
I was a Victory that day, but not a winged
one."

" Yes, you were with Miss Dare. The day be-
fore I had written her that silly note, and I had
to go to keep the appointment next day. How
I hated it. And then you were there and you
bowed to me. I began to write the poem that
night. And then I saw how much else of the
Victory was in you — ^you are so splendidly life-
giving, and so noble and true and just and great
of heart — ^and, oh, Dora, you will love greatly,
too, and if you love a man, you will teach him
to conquer. Dora! Love me! help me! I need
you so terribly ! "

" I am sure that Victories don't love," said
Dora, faintly. It seemed to her as if her only
chance of safety in the rush of his feeling was
in clinging fast to the metaphor. "They are
not real women, but ideals that men put before
them to remind them that they must conquer.
Your own Victory goes wherever the wind and

230

A WINGED VICTORY

the waves and the oars take her. She does not
know whither. And I am like that. I do not
see where I am going and I make dreadful mis-
takes. I do harm where I try most to help. I
am like the poor Victory. She has no head, you
know." She rose. " I must go to my father. It
is late. You may go back to the house with me,
but I cannot ask you to stay. It's better that
you shouldn't.''

" Then, Dora, meet me here in the morning —
at dawn — just for a little while. I shall be off
for the North early — ^you will not see me again
for months. And I must have another glimpse
of you. I can't do the last poems to fill out
that volume without your help. Sometimes I
think that I shall never finish it — that I have
written once of you and I shall never be able
to go so high again. I haven't written anything
so good as ^ The WingM Victory,' and that was
finished last winter."

" Oh, you surely will go on," said Dora. " You
must write more about the People — ^more about
your hopes for them. I want you to write of
them, and bring me your verses — ^always. I am
proud that you should think of me as — as in
any way — a help."

" Then you will meet me to-morrow at dawn,"
insisted Vance.

"You may walk by," she replied, relenting.
" I'll come out to see you off."

That night John Glenn was restless and wake-
ful. He talked a while : then Dora read to him

231

A WINGED VICTORY

until long past midnight. After he had dozed
off she still sat by his side, afraid to sleep lest
she should miss her meeting with Vance. He
might think that he had offended her again, and
stay out of sight for another year. She did not
know at what time he would come, but as the
night lamp grew pale and the shadows thin she
felt her pulses beating more strongly. Now that
the tryst was approaching, she could not deceive
herself with the thought that it was merely a
friendly parting. She was going to her lover.
"My lover," she murmured, and felt somehow
stricken and wounded, but with a pain that was
altogether sweet.

She did not want to go too soon — it would be
terrible to be there first — but suddenly she re-
fleeted that it would be worse to delay until the
real light had come. So to gain the protection
of the darkness she stole out of the room, and
flew down the stairs. She had on the white frock
that she had worn the day before : she would not
stop to change it, only to plunge her face and
arms into the cold water. Then she softly
opened the door and went out — out from the
weary house of sick and dying yesterday into the
dawn and promise of newly bom to-morrow.

Out of doors was a new world. The hot smells
and golden browns of the evening twilight had
given place to the odourless freshness and the
cold greys of morning. The quiet of fatigue
had changed into the hush of expectation. The
prairie had renewed itself in the night, and now
lay before her with the sweet, solemn face of

232

A WINGED VICTORY

a child — Si child all watchful and reverently
attentive.

She did not meet Vance near the house, and
for a moment she stood wavering in white un-
certainty, hesitating to leave the protection of
the shadows of her home. The growing light de-
cided her, and she went with swift steps across
the dew-burdened grass toward the woods. It
would be early for him to be setting forth, and
yet she knew perfectly that he would be there,
where they had sat yesterday, — she knew that
as soon as she came under the holier shades of
the trees she would be clasped in his arms.

" I told you, Vance, that I would say good-bye
to you at the house,'' she said, when she could
trust her voice.

" I waited for you all night," he replied,
" watching that light. I thought, while it was
burning, that you were there. How the hours
were long ! — for I did not know. I was only sure
when I saw you shining out there. And I would
not go to meet you. You were too like a star —
so I let you come to me."

" Yes, it was right," she said.

The breeze was stirring in the branches : the
birds were wide awake. Their faces, which had
been dim to each other, were quite clear now.
Dora held him at the length of her arms.

**This is our parting, remember," she said.
" You must go now."

" Not now^ Dora. That was what we said yes-
terday — so long ago. Now we shall never part."

233

A WINGED VICTORY .

" But it must be/' she said. " We have to wait
for such a long time — we must be careful not to
take too much. We are so young — not twenty,
either of us — ^such children — ^and children spoil
things. But I am glad that we are children —
we can love as children before we have to be
grown-up. Let us not grow up for ever and ever
so long."

'^ But we can play together as children," urged
Vance.

"Oh, no, we can't," said Dora. "We shall
grow up too soon. I feel quite — ^mature, — ^al-
ready. We must do just as we were going to
do. You are going to the Wisconsin woods, and
I, back to nurse my dear father."

" But let us see the sunrise together," begged
Vance, " the first sunrise of our happiness."

" No," said Dora, " we are growing older as
it grows lighter. We must keep our love in the
dawn. If we stay for sunrise we shall be old
lovers — not children in love. You must go,
dear."

" How wise you are, Dora," murmured Vance.
" Well, then, I will shut my eyes and you shall
say good-bye to me here, and then I will open
them and see you going away from me across
the grey fields. Put your arms over my eyes
and blind me — ^this way. How fresh they are
against my face! And now kiss me good-bye."

234

CHAPTER VII

WHEN Dora went to her father that morn-
ing she wondered if she should tell him
what had come to her. She feared that it would
not make him more comfortable about her fu-
ture; she shrank from his sceptical comment.
But on the other hand^ she doubted whether she
could keep her secret. It seemed as if the change
in her could not escape notice, as if every look
of her eyes, every movement of her hands pro-
claimed the truth. And above all there was the
need of saying with her voice that which she was
saying over and over again in her heart — " I
love him. I love him." So she told her father
what had been.

John Glenn clasped his long fingers behind
his head as it rested on the pillow, and looked
speculatively at the ceiling.

" Do I understand, my dear Dora, that you
are engaged to marry this estimable young
man? "

" I don't quite know, father. We are both
at college still. He has his career to make, and
I shall have mine. But I know that I shall
always love him," she finished, bravely.

" What is his career? " asked Glenn.

" He is a poet."

" And yours? "

" I want to be a doctor for children."

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A WINGED VICTORY

" Well," said Glenn, after a moment, " I con-
gratulate you, my daughter, and sincerely hope
that he may be worthy of your heart — which
I understand is his — if not of your hand, about
which there seems to be some uncertainty."

Dora moved softly about the room, arranging
things for the day. After another pause her
father spoke again, very gently.

" Come here, dear."

Dora went to him, put her arms about him,
and kissed him. Then she remembered that she
would not haviB done that the day before. The
same thought was in her father's mind, for he
looked at her quizzically.

" Dora," he said, " you are doubtless the. best—
girl in the world. Some girls argjkittf ul ; other
girls are loving. You areJjattTdutiful and lov-
ing. And so I sayTMTyou are perfect. I don't
mind telling you so. If I could rouse in you
pride, or vain glory, or hypocrisy, or some other
base passion I should feel surer of you — safer
about you. You are strong, Dora, but you have
the weakness of woman. You give yourself to
the world; your tenderness will always betray
you to it, and it will be merciless to you. But
perhaps you will never know, or perhaps you
will escape — or maybe it will be enough hap-
piness for you just to go on loving the world,
and trusting it, and giving yourself to it^ and
dying for it."

He drew his hands from under his head and
laid them upon his eyes. Dora thought that he
slept, and moved about more softly. But then

236

A WINGED VICTORY

she saw the long, wasted body under the coun-
terpane, trembling and shaken by sobs. The
sight was more sudden and terrible to her than
death would have been. She threw herself be-
side the bed and took his head in her arms, and
kissed him again and again.

" Papa, oh, papa — what is it? What is it? "

" I am dying, Dora, and the sting of it is that
I cannot — that I cannot save you/^

"Don't, don't be afraid for me, dear papa,"
begged Dora. " I am saved. I thought when
Peter died that there was nothing more for me
— ^but there was — so much — even this that I
couldn't dream of then. And I know now that
even if love goes, there is always life."

" Yes," said Glenn, " there is always life.
Mine in you — ^yours in your children. A never-
ending betrayal by each generation of its off-
spring — or rather the betrayal of us all by life
itself. I can't help you, my poor Dora, but I
needn't bring my clouds upon your happiness.
I'll sleep a little now. Go and write your first
love letter, good girl."

John Glenn died in the late summer. Linda
interrupted her triumphal progress from the
Thousand Islands to Bar Harbor to return to
Glenwood for the funeral.

"Poor papa," she said, as Dora led her to
the room where he was lying. " He was such a
failure. I wish that he could have known of
my engagement to Mr. Melledge. It's not out
yet, but it would have comforted him. Now I

237

A WINGED VICTORY

suppose that we cannot announce it until after
Christmas^ and the wedding will be put off until
June. It's a bore to stay another winter with
Aunt Bella. She's getting very cranky and de-
pendent. I'll tell you, Dora, when I go she'll
need a companion, and I'll persuade her to have
you."

Dora could not reply. She had looked for-
ward to making her own confession to Linda,
but now both her love and her grief seemed too
precious to be uttered. Yet Linda was her sis-
ter ; the tie of birth, of their common childhood,
and of remembered affection was not lightly to
be broken.

The next day when Linda was preparing to
leave, Dora put her arms about her sister, and
exclaimed :

" I know how happy you are, Linda, and I
hope that you will always be."

Linda looked startled.

" Oh, you mean my engagement. Yes. Tm
sure that it is quite the right thing for both
of us. I had a great deal of trouble to make Mrs.
Melledge see it, though. I'm afraid she's going
to be a bad case of mother-in-law. And I've
got one thing more to tell you, Dode. I've de-
cided to have you for my maid-of-honour."

" I shall be very, very glad to be that," said
Dora ; " to be close to you, on that day."

But Linda continued, with chilling reasonable-
ness :

" It will be a quiet wedding anyway — sl sort
of family affair. If I didn't have you I'd have

238

A WINGED VICTOEY

to take Grace Melledge, and she walks as if she
was on cork legs."

And Dora again put away her own happiness
as something too sacred for this light of common
day.

It had not been easy for Dora to send
Vance away, nor to refuse him the summons
which he craved, but a certain instinctive wis-
dom had compelled her to it. At her father's
death her resolution had almost given way.
Three times she had begun to write to Vance
telling him to come, but each time she had torn
up the paper. After all, it was better for them
to meet again first at college, where they must
live the year through, together, yet apart.

This proved more possible than Dora was at
first ready to think, though it was not easy. Her
mourning made an excuse which she pleaded,
with reluctant double intention, for not going to
general gatherings. Her laboratory kept her ab-
sorbed through long working hours. Now and
then she and Vance risked a walk in the twi-
light, or a dinner in an obscure and remote
restaurant. Vance chafed and gloomed, com-
manded and prayed, but Dora held firm. She
saw that if they would save themselves for each
other in the future it must be by the most rigid
self-control in the present. And Vance had his
reward. The rare and perfect delight of their
meeting, doubly distilled by days and weeks of
longing and repression, always moved her to an
infinite and most tender gaiety that was nearer

239

■%

A WINGED VICTORY

to tears than to smiles, but beyond both. Vance
came always tired, sore, nervously strained, dis-
couraged, but in Dora^s presence, walking beside
her in the darkness along the lake, with the fog
and the spray in their faces, or watching her
across the table in the squalid little restaurant,
he returned to happiness. He regularly brought
his work of the past interval to these meetings,
and they went over it line by line. He took
nearly all of Dora's suggestions, not without pro-
test. But once he exclaimed, generously:

" Dora, that's wonderful of you. You have a
better mind than I, and you are a better poet,
too."

" Oh, no, dear Vance," she laughed. " I'm very
stupid. Things only come to me in glimpses and
gleams, not as whole thoughts. I'm like the
Victory, I tell you — ^without a head."

" The Victory had a head, when the man who
loved her, first made her. And you have wings."

Dora drew a deep breath and looked at him
with happy eyes. " I don't know quite what you
mean by that, but I love to have you say it," she
murmured.

In reality, Dora suffered from the concealment
more than did Vance. She had an almost irre-
sistible thirst for the joy of utterance, and she
felt, too, the humiliation of the deception, where
her friends were involved. She shrank indeed
from telling Constance, but Leverett — her best
friend — it went against her loyal heart to^ leave
him in ignorance.

"Don't you think we can tell him, Vance?
You might) you know," she urged.

240

A WINGED VICTORY

But when Vance opposed it she had to admit
that his reasons were consistent

At Christmas Leverett had a party at his
father's place in Eggleston. Vance thought that
they might both go, but Dora was firm against it.

" If we had told Leverett, I might,'' she said,
"but really it wouldn't do. We should have
to keep away from each other, and we should be
unhappy and self-conscious. You go, and I will
tell Leverett why I can't."

This was very hard to do, for it involved false
emphasis that amounted to a lie.

" But this would be just to visit my family,
very quietly, with a few of your best friends
there," pleaded Leverett " I want my mother
to know you. She would like you, Dora. I've
told her that you're the girl I've known longest
and like best — ^and she thinks you're — good for
me, you know."

" I wish I could," said Dora, with tears in her
eyes. "But really I can't. I — should have to
go to other places ^"

"Yes. I see, Dora. Forgive me for teasing
you. You know — ^all I can't say, Dora — what I
tried to write. I know how it would be with me
if my mother "

He wrung her hand, and Dora, her heart full
of a love that she could not confess, accepted
his sympathy, feeling like a traitor and a
thief.

" I'll tell him all about it some day," she re-
flected, "and ask him to forgive me— dear old
Leverett"

Vance went to the house party and had a suc-

241

A WINGED VICTORY

cess, the details of which Dora gathered with
eager ears.

" They made me read something, and I chose
* The Winged Victory/ " he said. " I was almost
afraid to, though none of them had seen it* I
don't see how Leverett at least can help knowing
that it's you I mean. The tears were splashing
on the paper, and my voice was breaking like
everything in the last lines, when I thought of
you alone here in the city, studying by your
little lamp all evening, — ^but nobody noticed any-
thing. They all said, ^ How true it is to Greek
feeling — like Keats' " Ode to a Grecian Urn." ' "

" I'm very glad that they liked it," said Dora,
gratefully.

" But it was superb up there in the country.
I would have given anything to have had you
there. We must go to the country, Dora. The
city will stifle us. Let us go for a day."

"We shall have to wait," said Dora, "but
when spring first comes, and you have your vol-
ume ready, we'll take it out and try it for a whole
day in the woods or on the beach."

In the next two months Vance frequently re-
minded Dora of this promise. His moods of dis-
couragement came upon him pftener in these
days of declining winter and delayed spring.

" I shall never do anything again, Dora," he
would say, solemnly. " I have finished. You'd
better throw me over. I wish to God, for your
sake, that I were only a different person — ^not
just ^ a second-rate sentimental mind not at unity
with itself!"

242

A WINGED VICTORY

At such times Dora's temperament supplied
buoyancy for them both, and the little volume
continued to grow. At last it was declared com-
plete, and they took their long-promised reward.
They started at dawn, to avoid observation, and
walked up the deserted beach to the northward.
It was very early spring — with the shy promise
of green in the landscape, and of warmth in
the air. They came to the bathing-house whence
Constance and Dora had started on their con-
test. They found shelter in the same ravine,
where they made chocolate for breakfast, and
then they read the verses and settled on the
order.

" It's splendid," said Dora, at last. " Whether
it succeeds or not, Vance, we know it is good —
and other people will know — those whose opinion
is worth having."

With the rainbow of promise before them in
the completed book, they drifted into talk of the
future. Vance was sure that they could marry
in another year, as soon as they were out of
college.

" I don't expect to make you live on poetry,"
he said. " I can get a job to teach. That will
be a thousand, say, and if the book goes, I can
make as much more out of the magazines. Two
thousand a year won't be bad for two people, if
five hundred apiece is enough for each one."

" I think we should wait until I begin to prac-
tise," said Dora. " I shan't get much, of course,
and I want to do most of it for nothing, — but a
little will help. And you don't know nearly

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A WINGED VICTORY

enough, yet, Vance. You will have to study for
two years after you graduate.'^

" Not to teach English,^' said Vance. " You
don^t need to know anything for that— only
to have a good style and facility in the class-
room, Brown says."

" Oh, but that's so dishonest," protested Dora.

"Well, I don't care anything about teaching
anyway. It will only be a makeshift. After
a little I may go into journalism or miscellaneous
literary work. There are lots of jobs going,
once a man gets his name up."

"Then you ought not to teach at all," said
Dora, " and I shall not let you. I Ve got that old
house in the country — ^at least Aunt Bella's law-
yer says it's partly mine, but there's a suit about
it We can go out there and live for nothing,
and you can have all your time for writing and
I'll practise in the country round about. There
isn't a doctor nearer than Eggleston. It will
be a stunning place to bring up children in."

" We shan't have children, Dora," said Vance,
soberly. " At least not for a long time. We shall
have to save our money — ^we want to go to Italy,
you know."

" What do you mean, Vance ! " exclaimed
Dora, with startled eyes. " How can we not have
children? "

" Oh, well, you don't have to have them, you
know."

" But we must! Why else should we marry?
Of course I shall have children."

A WINGED VICTORY

" I'll explain it to you, sometime," said Vance,
uneasily.

"I know about those things," said Dora,
bravely. " I'm not an idiot, Vance. But what
I mean is that we shall want to have children.
If we don't, our lives have failed. It would be
all a mistake — our loving, and living together."

" I thought that we should live for the sake
of each other."

"But we can't do that truly without living
for other things, too. And the nearest thing
to anyone is their children. They live after we
are dead, to make the world what we wanted it
to be. They are us," she cried, breathlessly.
" They are ice, I mean. Why, Vance, I couldn't
love you without thinking that from our love
will come children, better than we are, a perfect
Victory with a head, or a poet with wings."

" Do you think of those things, Dora? " said
Vance, softly. " Bless you, dear girl. I'll make
a poem of that"

"Not for this volume. That's closed. No
more entries. Give me the manuscript, and I'll
borrow a typewriter from one of the girls and
do a beautiful copy for you."

"You've helped me every way on it," said
Vance. " And I want to dedicate it to you. I've
thought of that. Just your initials, D. G., and
underneath the lines from Browning:

" Verse and nothing else have I to give you.
Take them, Love, the book and me together:
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also."

245

A WINGED VICTORY

" Oh, Vance, I^m afraid not," said Dora.

"You are afraid of it then?" said the boy.
"Do you think I shall make you ridiculous
again? "

"No, no, dear Vance. You know that I am
proud of your poetry and proud of your love,
SiXid of loving you. But if you dedicate your
book to me we shall have to announce our en-
gagement."

" Yes, for heaven's sake, yes, Dora ! I'm sick
of this paltering and shuffling and concealment.
We are nearly through college. You will be do-
ing all your work in medicine next year. It will
be better to have it known, and then we can
take a little comfort together instead of steal-
ing oflf like thieves."

"Well, I think you are right," said Dora,
slowly. " When the book comes out we'll let the
dedication speak for us. That will be a beauti-
ful way. I like it"

They came back to the city that night, with a
sense of something positive at last attained.
Weary as she was, Dora spent happily many
hours in typewriting the record of this finality.
But alas, a few days after she had given the copy
to Vance, as perfect as loving fingers could make
it, he brought it back covered with wounds, some
showing only as scars, others gaping wide, and
bleeding.

" It won't do," he said. " I've mangled it more
that I can mend."

" Oh," cried Dora, in pity, glancing down
the broken pages. " Oh, well, I'll make another

216

A WINGED VICTORY

fresh copy, with all the corrections just as you
want them — ^and spaces where you've cut things
out."

But this copy also came back in a state of
hideous massacre.

" It's no use, Vance," said Dora, firmly. " I'm
going to do the first copy over with just the
corrections that we have agreed on, and nothing
left out, and send it. Then if you absolutely
have to make changes they can be done in the
proof."

" I don't care what you do with the disgusting
stuff," said Vance. " It's outrageous to write
poetry that way, to order."

^^ You know they weren't written that way,
Vance. We agreed that not one poem should go
in that didn't get written just because it was in
you and had to come out. And if it's wrong to
work toward a definite aim we should have found
that out before. They must go, Vance. It
would be worse than failure — it would be dis-
graceful — to give it up now."

So the last typewritten copy was sent, and a
few days later Vance was very cheerfully show-
ing Dora a letter of acceptance from the pub-
lishers.

" Their man Rockwell came to see me yester-
day," he said. " He has a scheme for making
the public take up poetry that he thinks will
give the book a start. I won't tell you about it
now, though."

Then came the galley proof, with its irksome
restraint, like mild imprisonment; and then the

247

A WINGED VICTORY

close and solitary confinement of the page proof,
when the soul is face to face with judgment on
itself and its deeds; and finally the scourging
and the rack, and the ignominious death and the
hopeless burial in the final electrotyped copy.
Dora went down, step by step, into this tomb
with the victim, guiding, supporting, comforting.
And as she had died with him, she looked for-
ward to the moment when the first pale copy
of the new-bom book should come timidly from
the press, as to the beginning of immortality.

248

CHAPTER VIII

THIS resurrection came on the first day of
June.

In these last days of Vance^s agony Dora^s
scruples about seeing him too often had van-
ished. They met almost daily, usually early
in the morning and on the beach. On this day
Dora had a premonition that something would
happen. She left the house at sunrise, and has-
tened along in the early light which came cool
and level from across the lake. Vance was wait-
ing for her. She could see his slender, dark
figure far away, against the yellow sand. He
came toward her without eagerness, though he
held in his hand a little square parcel. Dora
knew it and hastened, though her heart beat so
that she could not run. Yet they were both
breathless when they met, and after a furtive
embrace he gave the book into her hand.

" It came last night,'' he said, " but I wanted
to give it to you here.''

Dora broke the string, tore off the wrapper,
and looked happily at the neat grey cover with
gilt lettering, and the deckle-edged leaves.

"You'll be disappointed in something," said
Vance. "There's something, I mean, that you
won't find. Look quick."

"Oh, Vance, what did you cut out? You
couldn't sacrifice one of them — they are like our
children. Which is it? "

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A WINGED VICTORY

^Look at the title-page," he commanded.

" Poems by Norris Wilcox? What does it
mean, Vance? "

She gazed at him blankly.

" Look for the dedication," he replied.

It was missing. Instead there was a preface
stating that Norris Wilcox, a young man of ro-
mantic temperament and revolutionary tenden-
cies, had shot himself at Florence. These dis-
jecta membra — confusions of a wasted youth
— ^had been gathered up in the hope that the
public might honour the memory of another poet
whom it had unwittingly slain.

Dora read it, and looked up uncomprehend-
ingly into her lover's face.

" But I don't see," she said.

"It was a scheme of the publishers," said
Vance, not meeting her eyes. "They thought
that the story might help to sell the book."

" But it's a lie," said Dora, desperately. " Oh,
Vance, Vance! You have let your poems go
out without your name, as if you were ashamed
of them. You have denied them, and published
them with a lie."

"Well, I was ashamed of them — of some of
them at least. I don't want to be judged en-
tirely by them. And then the dedication to you
would make our engagement known — ^and IVe
come to think that that would be a bore, until
we are ready to marry. I ought to have con-
sulted you about the preface, but we've fought so
about the book, almost quarrelled, — so I didn't

250

A WINGED VICTORY

show it to you but just slammed it through. Of
course, the secret will come out Some people
know already about * The Winged Victory.' The
second edition will have my name and the dedi-
cation to you, and the triumph will be all the
greater for this delay.''

Dora listened, her eyes fixed on Sterling's,
alert to catch every syllable, every look and ex-
pression of his defence. When he finished she
held out the volume to him.

" I don't want it, Vance."

He drew away from her.

"Do you mean that, Dora?" he asked, with
iron in his voice.

She averted her head. " Yes," she said.

" And you won't explain why you deny to me
a privilege that every poet has? "

" I don't deny you anything, Vance. But I
don't understand why you expect or care to sell
your poems by a trick. And I did not want
the dedication — I mean that I did not desire it
nor expect it until you urged it. But I see this
— ^that you have taken the page that was to be
mine and put a ghastly, wretched falsehood
there ; and you have let your poems, that should
be honourable to you, go out — ^as if you were
ashamed of them, telling that lie about them,
and depying that they are yours. Oh, Vance,
can't you see that it is so unworthy of you, and
of your work?"

" No, I can't," said the boy, stubbornly. " It
isn't a. lie. I have shot myself, — ^more than once.

251

A WINGED VICTORY

It was a mere accident that I didn't have a pis-
tol, and that I wasn't at Florence. Vye always
thought that I should die there."

Dora looked at him in a kind of wild astonish-
ment. Then she smiled — a pale, sad ghost of a
smile, — but Vance saw.

" To hell with it! '' he cried.

He swung his arm, and threw the book far
out on the water.

" Good-morning,'' he said, and, raising his cap,
turned back the way he had come.

Dora stood looking after him — ^afraid for him,
yearning to forgive him and comfort him, yet
still indignant. She would not call to him,
— ^that was too much! — ^but she waited, — ^waited
until his figure was a mere black dot on the sand.
Then as she turned she saw the book, a grey
spot in the sun-lit blue of the water. At first
she looked at it indifferently. Then a sudden
tenderness came over her. The poems at least
were hers — hers and Vance's — ^their children, as
she had said. They were as they had been, per-
fect in her eyes. They were coming back to her :
the gentle waves were bringing them little by
little to her feet. It was a pledge of reconcilia-
tion — Si sign that their lives were not to be parted
forever. She waited a moment more. Then she
pulled up her skirts and stepped out into the
water, above her ankles, seized the book by its
cover, and hid it, wet and defaced, in her bosom.

When she reached her room she drew it out
and carefully parted the leaves, holding them
in the sun, so that they might dry. Every page

252

A WINGED VICTORY

was precious, every line brought back her lover.
When Constance, alarmed at her absence from
breakfast, came to the door, Dora was still in
her wet shoes and waist. She hastily concealed
the book, explained that she had been out early,
and promised to change her clothes and come
down — ^but she sat in the sun until noon, read-
ing and reading again every poem in the book,
pressing the wrinkled leaves dry with her
handkerchief, forbidding herself when she would
have wet them again with tears.

At last, when the leaves were dry and the
warped covers straightened, she laid the book
away in her deepest drawer. She would not
look at it again until Vance had come back.
And that would not be, she thought, until he
had wiped out the stain of that title-page. It
might be months, or years, but he must come.
He was hers, and she knew that he needed her.
And meanwhile the little grey book was a proud
memory.

When Dora came in to breakfast the next
morning, the daily paper, for which her table
subscribed, lay beside her plate, but she did not
pick it up. Constance came in a little later,
and began to read for the benefit of the others.

" Why, here's Rudel," she suddenly exclaimed.
" Rudel has broken into the hall of fame.''

Dora sat transfixed. It could not be — so
soon! It was hard work, but she continued
peaceably to sip her chocolate. Constance
read on.

253

A WINGED VICTORY

" He's published a poem about the Anarchists,
— not the Lady of Tripoli this time. And he
didn't sign it. It's in a volume with the name
Norris Wilcox, a man who, he says, is dead.
Oh, what nonsense ! "

She turned the page and began to read the
dramatic notes. But the other girls were curi-
ous, and soon someone else was reading how the
sophomoric poet of Western College had intro-
duced himself to the world by a trick which the
accomplished literary critic of the Times was the
first to recognise and expose.

"Come on, Dora," said Constance. "Let's
go up to your room and run over that psy-
chology."

But Dora stood her ground. She knew that
Constance suspected something, but it was not
to disarm her suspicion that she stayed. She
gatliered that Vance was under fire, and she
would not desert her post.

" Here's an editorial about it," said a girl who
had possessed herself of another fraction of the
paper, and she began to read. It was still about
" The Chant for the Anarchists." Nothing else
in the volume apparently had attracted atten-
tion. The time was shortly after the judicial
murder of Spies and his associates, and the
editor was eager to rank himself with the
saviours of society. He assumed that the reason
for the falsehood under which the volume was
published was that the real author might escape
responsibility. "A cowardly subterfuge of a
blackguard boy," commented the editor. "A

254

A WINGED VICTORY

surreptitious waving of the red flag before the
youth of our colleges." "The writer displays
the same courage, moral and physical, as the
dastard who threw the bomb." " We hope that
the authorities of Western College will not be
slow to purge their institution from the disgrace
of the presence of such a reptile. Let his book
be burnt by the hangman, and the author cast
out, not merely from college, but from decent
society."

These trivial vivacities of provincial journal-
ism cut Dora like lashes. She wanted to pro-
test, even to the girls who read, only half
understanding the cause of the excitement. She
knew so well how it had come about, from what
motives he had suppressed his name — unworthy
ones perhaps, but not cowardice, — not the cow-
ardice of the man who betrays his cause! It
w^as a dreadful mistake from which yesterday
she would have given her right hand to save
him. To-day she would go to the scaffold for
him. The girls were all talking, some on one
side, some on the other.

" What do you think, Dora? " asked one.

" I think it is outrageous," she murmured.

"What, the poem?" asked another.

" No."

It was all she could trust herself to say.

It seemed an interminable time before the
girls dispersed to their classes, and Dora could
think. She knew that Vance needed her — ^but
would he send for her, or come? Or should she
go to him? She hoped that somehow during the

255

A WINGED VICTORY

day they would be thrown together. She for-
sook her work and spent the morning in places
where the students gathered, in a forlorn hope
that Vance would come. The talk that she heard
about her was of him, and she saw the little grey
book in the hands of a number oif students. Late
in the morning she met Leverett, and scarcely
caring to conceal her anxiety, she asked him at
once :

" Where is Vance? "

" He's up in my room," said Leverett " When
this thing came out the reporters got after him
and so we spirited him away. He's got to go
before the facully at three," he added, in a lower
tone. " He wants to stay quiet till then."

"Oh, Leverett," said Dora, "will you let me
know how it comes out? "

" Yes, of course I will. And I'll tell him that
you asked me."

At luncheon the girls were buzzing with gos-
sip, and Dora found it hard to stay the conven-
tional fifteen minutes. At three she would see
Vance as he crossed the campus, if only that a
look might pass between them — ^and she thought
of all that her eyes must say to him, her sym-
pathy, her courage, her steadfast, unchanged con-
fidence. But at that hour there were many stu-
dents gathered; Vance, very pale but unshaken,
passed by quickly with Leverett, and neither
looked to right or left as they disappeared within
the building which contained the college ofllces.
Then Dora went down to the beach to wear away
the afternoon there, where she and Vance had

256

A WINGED VIOTOEY

met day after day in the happiness of youth and
promise. She could not stay long, and went mis-
erably back to college. Fortunately, Leverett
came soon after.

'*Well?'' she asked.

" They've fired him/' said Leverett. " He told
me a little about it, and Brown was over at the
chapter-house just now a;nd let out some things.
They asked Vance if he wrote the poems, and he
said that he did. Then they asked him why he put
in that fool story about Norris Wilcox, and he
said that it was true, that he was Norris Wilcox,
and that he had committed suicide. Then the
prex got very angry, and started to call him
down, and Vance gave him some back talk, and
then they sent him out, and afterwards voted to
fire him.''

Dora listened with her heart beating out its
self-reproach. Vance's defence was so pitifully
like what he had told her the day before. If
she had only been patient with him, and stood
by him, and counselled him, he would have come
to see things as other people saw them, and then,
perhaps, this final disgrace might have been
avoided.

" Where is he now? " she asked.

" I left him at his room."

"You left him! How could you do that?'^
she said, with a sudden start of fear.

Leverett looked at her curiously. " He made
me go. He said that he didn't want anybody
around. And I knew that you would want to
hear about things."

257

A WINGED yiCTORY

" Yes, yes," said Dora. " Of course. You were
awfully good to him. I saw you walking up to
the faculty building with him."

"Do you know why I started in to be his
friend? " said Leverett, bluntly. " It was just
because you sent me to him. Of course, now that
I know him it's easy to stand up for him — ^but at
first, I tell you Dora, I thought "

She interrupted him.

" I'm very glad that you like him now, and
thank you for coming to tell me. Now I must
go in to dinner."

Leverett put out his hand to detain her.

"There's something else I want to ask you,
Dora. I'm going to have a house-party to cele-
brate my graduation, you know — that is, I'm
going to have it if you will come. We'll go up
after college closes and stay around until we're
tired of it. Now, Dora, this is the last time we'll
have all the old crowd together, and I want you
to say ^ Yes.' "

His eyes seemed to challenge hers, but she met
them steadily.

" Yes," she said, " I'll come. It's good of you
to have us."

" Bully for you," he cried. " My mother will
write to you. We'll get old Vance up there, and
between us we'll straighten him out. What's a
college degree to a poet anyway."

At dinner the talk was again all of Vance
Sterling and his book. The evening papers had
the story of his expulsion from college. More-

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A WINGED VICTORY

over, one critic had had time to go further into
his poetry, and to discover other dangerous ten-
dencies. It was not only anarchistic, but also
erotic. To a revolutionary mind the author
added a perverted imagination. Dora heard the
phrases thrown about carelessly, and shuddered.
Constance leaned over to her.

" Let's get out of this," she said, sympathet-
ically. " You're looking sick and miserable. I'll
bring the paper up to you."

They rose together and went up to Constance's
room. A little later Constance descended and
captured the journal.

" Shall I read it to you, Dora? " she asked.

^^No, please give it to me. I'm going up-
stairs," and Dora caught at the sheet and fled.

Once in her own room she spread the article
before her, and began to read conscientiously.
The critic wrote in a strain of mingled amuse-
ment, contempt, and high moral indignation.
The poems were everything that was bad. They
were plagiarised from Keats, Shelley, Swinburne,
Whitman. They were erotic, prurient, preten-
tious, ridiculous. Extracts were given, single
lines and couplets that in their place had been
full of quivering life, but which now lay on the
ugly newspaper page like severed members, dead
flesh. And everywhere was the assumption that
the poet himself had turned tail in the hour of
publication, and had, ostrich-like, sought to save
himself by hiding his head in a lie.

Half way down the column Dora stopped in
horror and dismay. Vance would see this — he

259

A WINGED VICTOEY

might be reading it now, alone and in despair.
And what would he do? The fear that had taken
her by the throat in the afternoon, when she had
learned that Vance was by himself, returned
upon her now. In his words to her that morning,
his pitiful words of defence, she saw what she
had perceived dimly before — Vance's passion for
dramatising his own life ; and in the present mo-
ment, when he felt himself outlawed and aban-
doned, what so likely as that the suggestion of
his preface should master him?

She caught up her hat and flew down the
stairs, out into the pure twilight, on her way
to Vance's lodgings. At the door of the mean
apartment building she hesitated. Other stu-
dents lived there — it was alive with gossip in

the calmest times, and to-night She entered

resolutely. The woman who answered her ring
admitted that Mr. Sterling was there, but de-
clared that he had given orders that no one was
to see him — especially no reporters.

" He will see me," said Dora. " It's impor-
tant. Please let me pass* I am not a reporter.
I know his room."

Vance's door was closed. To Dora's knock
there was no response, and she opened it boldly.
The room was dark, silent

"Vance, Vance, dear," she whispered; and
groping her way past tables and chairs she found
him on the couch, and sitting down beside him
she put her arms about him.

"Dora, is it you? Have you really come to
me? "he asked, wonderingly, and then she heard

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A WINGED VICTOEY

him weeping in long, deep sobs, and felt his hot
tears on her hands.

Slowly, at intervals, she comforted him. His
poems were true; they said only what every in-
telligent person knew was true. He must not
fear for them : they would make their way. And
the false title-page must be suppressed : he must
write to the papers which had attacked him,
and explain that he had not meant it to be taken
seriously.

" But I did, Dora,'' insisted Vance. " It's a
kind of allegory of my own life."

" Oh, .Vance, you can't make them understand
that."

" Yes, I can," said Vance, darkly. " There's
one way. I can make it true."

That was the thought that Dora knew would be
at the back of his mind. She was glad that he
had uttered it.

" No, no, Vance," she said, reasonably, " that
would be utterly weak. That would be sur-
render. You must live and beat them. And
for my sake, Vance, you mustn't think such
thoughts."

" That's the worst of it, Dora. For your sake
I'd best have done with it. I've deceived you. I
meant to make you proud, and I've only made
you ashamed."

" I am proud," cried Dora, " proud of you and
of your poems — our poems, for you gave them to
me. I believe in every one of them, and I believe
in you. It wasn't cowardly of you to print that
story about Norris Wilcox — ^though it wasn't

261

A WINGED VICTORY

right. But it would be cowardly to make it true
now.''

"Dora," said Vance, suddenly, "do you be-
lieve in me now as much as you did be-
fore? "

" I believe in you more, Vance.'^

" And can you love me as you did before? '^

" Oh, more, much more."

"That's because you are sorry for me,'' he
said, bitterly.

"I am sorry for you, dear Vance, but I am
glad for you, too. You have such a splendid
chance to redeem yourself by writing great poems
for all the people — ^and such a reason for doing
it that you must — ^you mustJ^^

" And you believe that I shall? "

" I do, Vance.''

" Dora."

He put up his arms and drew her head down
close to his.

" Dora, if you believe that, will you prove it
— prove it by marrying me — to-night? "

Dora's arms involuntarily held him closer,
but after a moment she drew away.

"Then you don't really believe in me," said
Vance. " You are sorry for me. You think I
have a chance, but "

Dora put her hand over his lips.

" I am ready to show you that I believe in you
and love you — but — to marry you to-night —
what good would that do? "

" Do? " cried Vance. " It would take me out
of this hell into paradise. Think of it — ^to for-

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A WINGED VICTORY

get all this — to leave it behind forever, as if it
had not been — to begin the new life — here —
with you — to-night ^^

" We mustn't think of it," said Dora, sorrow-
fully. " If we should be married now, suddenly,
it would do you so much harm. It would seem to
some people to prove what the papers say of your
book. It would destroy your chance of proving
them wrong, of justifying yourself. And that is
what you have to do, Vance."

" Yes, yes, that is all true," said Vance, " but
to go away for just a little while, and to come
back to it with new strength, the strength of your
wings of victory — Oh, Dora, Dora, you shall not
deny me this — I want you ^"

He drew her down against him, and she could
feel his body tremble, and his hands, as they
sought to embrace her. She held him away and
kissed him, passionately and sorrowfully.

" If I must prove to you that I believe in you,
that I love you, I will marry you, Vance," she
said, "not to-night — ^to-morrow — if, after you
think it over, it seems best. We cannot go away
together until after college closes — until after
my sister's wedding— and I have promised Lev-
erett to go to his house-party after his gradu-
ation."

He would have protested, but she went on.

"You must let me do these things, Vance.
They seem to me important, and I have promised.
But after that we will go to Glenwood — ^where
our love began. And now you must let me go.
No, you shall let me go. I will meet you on the

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A WINGED VICTORY

beach— early — ^and you can tell me what you
have decided. Good-night, dear boy."

She put his arms away and arose. Then, as he
called her, she went to him swiftly and kissed
him, and, eluding his embrace in the darkness,
she fled.

264

CHAPTER IX

DORA walked home through the mild summer
night, uplifted and proud. Every pulse in
her body thrilled her to trembling as she thought
of what might have been, and to joy that it was
not That she had saved him, her lover — she
did not doubt. She had won him back to the uses
of life. And it was worth while to live — to live
as the trees, which swung their great boughs in
the tepid air, to live even as the locusts, which
beat out their futile hours against the unyield-
ing walls of glass that surrounded the unattain-
able electric flame. She had given life; and her
love, which had been all tenderness and humble
service, was glorified to passionate exaltation.

As soon as she reached her little triangular
room she lighted her lamp, and spent nearly the
whole night before her marriage in fierce study.
For though she had yielded to Vance — ^had
allowed him to say what was good for him — ^and
she felt the keenest joy in thus obeying the in-
stinct of life-giving love — she was resolved to save
what she could of the future which she had willed
for herself. Years of medical study, of hospital
training — how much of this she could count on
gaining after marriage she dared not think. But
this close of her last year at college she was deter-
mined to make her own. She kept down the beat-
ing of her blood, and forced her mind to clear
itself for its task.

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A WINGED VICTORY

At sunrise she was at the appointed place in
time to see Vance come swinging down the beach.

" I've thought it all out/^ he said, in business-
like fashion, after he had kissed her. " Since our
marriage is to remain a secret we can't have it
in the city. I'm too much in the papers for that :
it would start another hue and cry, and you
Avould be drawn in. We must go across the
lake."

" Very well," submitted Dora.

They took an early steamer for the Gretna
Green of the West. They were almost the only
passengers. Vance found a sheltered place
against the pilot house, and borrowed a rug and
wrapped Dora up warmly, as if she had suddenly
become an object of great value and fragility.
Dora liked it. She sat quietly looking out over
the water with vague, sleepy eyes, while Vance
hovered about, sometimes reciting poetry, and
again going ofif to pace the deck. The passengers
and the officers of the boat surveyed them with
kindly, if slightly humorous, interest. Once the
captain paused in front of them and remarked:

" I reckon you'd like to ask me, young feller,
where to git a licence. On Sunday we have a
feller on the boat givin' 'em out, but this ain't our
regular business day. You'll have to go t' the
county clerk's, forty-five Main Street. There's a
justice next door that only charges a dollar."

Vance thanked the officer a little ungraciously,
but he made note of the information.

" I'll bet, now, that you've forgot all about
the ring," went on the captain. " Git that at

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A WINGED VICTORY

Turley Brothers' Emporium. They'll give ye a
real simon-pure for two-fifty. We have them on
sale aboard, too, on Sundays. Sometimes folks
get married just seein' the sparkle of the rings.
Lord, I've seen a thousand couple married out
o' this very boat. But I say to 'em all what I
say to you. You think you're only up against
each other, but you're not. You're up against
the holy state o' matrimony, and that ain't no
joke."

" I wish he'd mind his own business," growled
Vance, but Dora laughed.

" That's his business — taking people across the
lake to be married — ^and he was attending to it.
I'm sure, Vance, that you had forgotten the ring,
and I don't believe you ever knew that you had
to get a licence."

" Well, I've never been married before," said
Vance, in defence. " Anyway, we'll not go back
on his boat. We'll take the train."

"But that's so much more expensive," said
Dora, " and you bought round-trip tickets."

" Never mind," said Vance. " I don't want to
see that old brute again."

When they landed Vance went on into the
town, leaving Dora in a small, green square near
the dock. She sat there watching the birds for
a half hour, very quiet and passively happy. By
and by Vance came with a clouded brow.

" They'll give me a licence all right, and the
justice will marry us at two, but we have to have
a witness— someone who knows us. They told
me to get the captain of the steamer."

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A WINGED VICTORY

" Well," said Dora, cheerfully, " Tm sure that
he'll be glad to perjure himself for us. Go and
ask him/'

When Vance had returned again they went to
eat a very bad dinner at the hotel, and at two
o'clock they entered the dingy little office. The
genial captain was already there, and two or
three friends of the justice, all smoking. Vance
produced the licence and the ring; the captain
solemnly witnessed to their identity; and the
justice, laying down his cigar, began to read from
where he sat No marriage could be less what
a girl would imagine, or plan, or desire — ^yet
to Dora it seemed unspeakably solemn. She
fixed her eyes on the justice's face and listened
to every word with a sense of the holiness and
finality of it all. Vance tried to carry it oflF with
an air of indifference, as if he were bored and
outraged by the whole proceeding, but the sweet-
ness in Dora's voice as she gave her answers, and
in her eyes when she held out her hand for the
ring, won him to reverence. At the close of the
ceremony she quite simply let the justice and the
captain kiss her cheek — ^and then she turned to
give Vance the whole gladness of her face and
eyes.

" Now, Vance/' she whispered, " I'm very, very
happy."

Outside the office the captain looked at his
watch.

** We'll be starting back soon," he said, " and
I don't doubt you young folks'll say the sooner
the better. I've had the bridal chamber fixed up

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A WINGED VICTOEY

for ye/^ he added, with a benevolent twinkle in
his eye.

" We are going back by train," said Vance.'

"What I Took all the trouble to come over
here to git married and then goin' back in the
cars ! " cried the veteran. " I wouldn^t 'a^ be-
lieved 't was in human nature. Say, young fel-
ler, ain't you the chap that's got into trouble at
college writing poetry to the anarchists? I
thought I'd seen your name in the papers."

Dora laid her hand on Vance's arm to check
his utterance.

" There has been something in the papers about
my husband," she said, " and we are very anxious
that there should not be anything more. Al-
though we have been married we cannot — we are
not to live together yet, and we must ask you to
keep our secret."

The captain took off his hat.

" Sure I will, Mrs. Sterling," he said. " And
I beg your pardon if I have said anything to
offend you. So many people come across t' git
married for fun that one gits a bit careless in
talking of it But I see you ain't that kind, so
I beg you'll accept my best wishes."

The ride back to the city was long and tire-
some. Vance and Dora could not get seats to-
gether at first, and when they did there was em-
barrassment and constraint between them. The
captain's jokes had left a sting behind. When
they finally reached the city and went out into
the hot, dusty, smoky twilight, Dora had a sud-
den emotion of repugnance,

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A WINGED VICTORY

" I wi«h we could go out to Glenwood," she
said.

" Come on/' said Vance. " Let's do it"

" No," said Dora, quickly, " I was wrong. It
would only be harder for us later if we ran away
now."

" All right We can dine over there, I sup-
pose."

He pointed to a hotel across the street, with
furnished-room signs prominently displayed.

Dora had intended to go back to college at
once, but she yielded. It was an hour more.
They might as well take it

They found their way to a musty, dimly-lighted
dining-room, where, except for the flies, they
were the only guests. As no waiter was in view,
Vance went out to order the dinner.

" They won't have anything ready for twenty
minutes," he said, on his return. ^^ Don't you
want to go upstairs? "

Dora looked up at him, wondering.

" Upstairs? "

" Yes. I've registered — ^not our real names,
of course."

" But — I'm going back to college after din-
ner."

" Dora ! You won't do that — on our marriage
night You are not going to leave me? You
don't mean that for days — for weeks maybe ^"

" That was what we said, Vance. I told you
that I would marry you, but that we could not
stay together — not yet, because there are so many
reasons — ^because of my work, and because I had

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A WINGED VICTORY

promised my sister to be at her wedding — ^and
Leverett. I know how the mention of these
things irritates you^ but yon know that I am a
literal person. I can't give them up, since I
have promised.''

" You said that you would marry me, and we
are married. No, not married, licenced is the
word. That is what we have been. And now you
are going to leave me, with all the horror of this
day to haunt me through this night. My God,
Dora, think what it means to me — ^this night."

There was something in his voice that sent
pain straight to Dora's heart.

"I do, Vance. And to me. Do you think I
shall go to my bed to-night without reaching out
my arms for you in the darkness — ^without
tears? "

" But an hour, Dora. Just one — ^to put away
the old life and consecrate us to the new. Dora,
dearest, do not deny us this/^

Dora shook her head.

" I can't, Vance. Please don't ask me. I
might not be able to say no again, and I should
be sorry. I must finish my year at college : my
going on in medicine depends on it. And it
would be wrong to go back — after that. I feel,
somehow, that I should not be the same person.
I could not face the girls. No, I can't, I can't,
Vance. And I am so dreadfully tired."

"All right," said Vance, trying to speak in-
diflferently, " I'll take you home, then. Oh, let's
cut out the dinner. We couldn't eat it anyway.
Come on."

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A WINGED VICTORY

Dora rose quickly.

" You need only take me to the train, Vance
— not that, if you'd rather not Only forgive
me — and be a little good to me."

Her voice almost broke with the force of the
tears behind it. She seemed suddenly to have no
strength in herself — to be altogether dependent
on her husband. And his anger made her utterly
forlorn.

" I only want to be good to you — ^now and al-
ways, Dora,*' returned Vance, in his hard tone.
"If you think that we should not be seen to-
gether, I'll say good-night to you here."

Dora put out her hand. " Good-night, my hus-
band," she said, gently.

On her way home Dora stopped at a baker's
to buy some buns. It was long past the dinner
hour. She knew that her absence for a whole
day in the teeth of the examinations had been
remarked, and she slipped into the dormitory
as quietly as possible, to avoid question. She
climbed up to her hot little room under the roof,
and tried to wash down one of the dry buns with
water from her pitcher. This was her marriage
feast. By and by she threw herself upon her
bed — she could not bear to undress — ^and lay
there long, in a stupor of fatigue. A knock at
the door aroused her, and sudden light. It was
Constance, in a shimmer and whirl of white
flounces and laces. She stood above Dora, flam-
ing like an angel of wrath.

" Next time I have to lie for you a whole day
through I'd like to know it a little beforehand,

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A WINGED VICTORY

so that I won^t have to expand my story every
hour or two/^ she remarked.

"Oh, thank you, Connie,^^ said Dora. "But
I'm sorry you had to lie for me. It was very
simple — ^and there won't be a next time."

"No?" said Constance. "Dora, I suspect
that you're a little fool. Tell me all about it."

" I can't to-night, dear. I'm too dead tired."

Then Constance took her hands, and became,
all at once, an angel of mercy. She told Dora
about the dance, about her friends, about every-
thing that had been done at college in the long
day. She gave her back her girlhood in the few
minutes while she made her undress and go to
bed. Then she kissed her and went away.

Dora was too tired to sleep. She watched the
light creeping across the floor from the moon,
rising late, a ruinous moon, saffron yellow and
sinister.

" Our honeymoon," she thought. . " Never
mind. He will be happy — ^he shall be — ^and he
will be a great poet, and make songs for The
People."

278

CHAPTER X

DORA looked forward to the next days with
dread, and indeed, they were hard. It was
hard to carry on the routine of a life that was
really at an end, with the door into the new life
already ajar. It was hard, day by day, to meet
Vanee^s tragic figure. It was hard to keep secret
from her best friends what, as Dora had said,
made her a different person. She felt ashamed in
talking to her classmates about the future — she
blushed whenever she had to sign her name Dora
Glenn. She wondered if she should not tell
Linda that she was not the proper person for a
maid of honor. Only her sister's constant re-
iteration of her advantages over Grace Melledge
kept her silent. And yet in these days Dora was
happier than she had ever been. Her friends
were amazed at her high spirits, her energy, her
active, militant charm.

She spent as much time as she could with
Linda, helping her with the preparations, un-
packing the presents, directing the invitations,
and ordering the ceremonies. She displayed so
much zeal and management that Mrs. Henderson
openly drew comparisons at Linda's expense,
whereat Linda looked at her sister archly,

" What a clever little mouse you are, Dode,'^
she said. " You've fixed Aunt Bella. I tell you,
it's lucky for me that I'm legally adopted.^'

The trousseau particularly interested Dora,

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A WINGED VICTORY

and once or twice as she shopped with Linda she
made a few purchases for herself.

" Why, Dora," exclaimed Linda, on one occa-
sion, " I shouldn't have suspected you of such
luxurious tastes in lingerie. I should think that
you were buying a trousseau for yourself.''

"Well, I am,'^ said Dora, blushing a little.
" It's well to pick up a few things, isn't it, now
that I can have the benefit of your taste? "

One day, as Dora stood before the mirror in
Linda's room, looking at herself for the first time
in what she thought of as her wedding-dress, a
wish came to her lips,

"Linda," she said, slowly, "would it seem
very, very bold of me if I asked you to let me send
two or three invitations to my friends^-my spe-
cial friends?"

" Oh, no," said Linda, " you can have all the
invitations you want to the church."

" I meant to the house, too, Linda. Just three.
I don't know many of your friends, and I'd
like to make a little party for myself, you know."

"Well, you know how closely we've had to
draw the line. Whom do you want to invite? "

"Leverett Raymond."

" I've asked him."

" Oh, that's good. Then only two— Constance
Dare and Vance Sterling."

" Well," conceded Linda, " I don^t mind Miss
Dare, if you insist, but I never heard of this
Vance person."

" Oh, let me invite him, Linda. It's the one
thing that I most want."

275

{

A WINGED VICTORY

"Well, you've been a good little sister/' said
Linda, "so yon may have your Vance if yon
won't be happy without him. But look here, lit-
tle Dode, I don't want to hear of your getting into
mischief. I am sure that Aunt Bella will have
you to stay with her after I am gone, and one
condition is ^ no followers,' — ^none from Western
College, anyway.'^

Dora felt like a monster of duplicity as she
thanked Linda.

" But I'm not coming to stay with Aunt Bella,"
she said.

" You're not? Why, I thought I was making a
place for you — that you would be respectably
settled for life, and I should never have to worry
about you again."

" But, Linda, when a girl goes to college she
makes plans of her own — plans that I could not
carry out if I lived with Aunt Bella."

" Then why are you taking so much trouble
about all this wedding business — coming down
here every day just in the middle of your exam-
inations? "

Dora looked at her sister in dismay.

"Don't you understand, Linda, that I want
to do it because I love you? And I love the wed-
ding, too," she added. " I feel almost as if it
were my own."

"I should think," resumed Linda, after a
pause, " that you'd feel it your duty to stay with
Aunt Bella. She's our only relative — ^and "

" I don't," said Dora, flatly. " Not the least
bit in the world."

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A WINGED VICTORY

The next day Dora gave Vance his invitation.
As she expected, he made difficulties, but she in-
sisted.

" You must. I want it. I absolutely want
it."

She asked Leverett to be sure to bring Vance
to the church, and to the reception afterwards.

Her confidence in Leverett^s promise gave her
a particular sense of triumph as she marched up
the aisle in front of Linda. Somewhere in the
church Vance was watching her. She was glad
that her dress strengthened the really beautiful
lines of her long figure, and brought out, above
the whiteness, the tender pink under the brown
of her cheeks. Vance loved that colour.

" You're a witch, Dode," said Linda, as they
stood for a moment in the porch waiting for the
carriages. " How did you do it? Nicholas asked
me if he might kiss you as a brother, and I told
him certainly not."

At the reception Leverett came to her, his
cloudy face quite alight with enthusiasm.

"You're stunning," he whispered. "We're
all kissing the bride, and swearing that we'd
rather kiss the maid-of-honour."

"Well, you may, Leverett," said Dora, and
laughed at his confusion.

" You see," she said, " I feel as if it were my
wedding, and I should rather like to be giving
bride's kisses."

"Yes," growled Leverett, "bride's kisses!
They don't count."

" Oh, yours would, you know,- Leverett. I

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A WINGED VICTORY

should be really glad to kiss you. Now please
look out for my party — see that Constance gets
enough to eat, and send Vance over here if he is
too bored/*

Vance was at the other end of the room, loofc
ing on indifferently at the show. As he did not
come, Dora had to go over to him herself.

" I wish we could get out of this, Dora," he
said. " It makes me furious to see you over there
looking happy for everybody, and flirting with
every man who comes by.**

" Of course, I'm happy, Vance,** she laughed.
" This is my wedding. Look at this dress — ^no,
look at it, you tiresome boy. It's my wedding-
dress. She how pretty the shoulders are. My
shoulders are rather ugly — they*re too square-
but you wouldn't guess it, would you? And these
flowers are my wedding bouquet And upstairs,
if the plain-clothes men approve of you, you
can see my wedding presents; and to-night we
are going to begin our wedding journey to Eggles-.
ton. Of course, I*m happy. Now, come. I'm go-
ing to introduce you to your sister, Mrs. Melledge,
and your brother-in-law, Mr. Nicholas Melledge,
and your Aunt Bella — Mrs. Henderson, and
your mother-in-law once removed — Mrs. Horatio
Melledge — most desirable connections, all of
them. Dear boy, you didn't have an idea that
Dora Glenn was a comet with such a brilliant
tail, did you? You are like the hero who married
a spinning girl because he loved her, and she
turned out to be a princess."

" Dora,** said Vance, solemnly, " what have I

278

A WINGED VICTORY

to do with these people? They're philistines —
absolute philistines.''

" You haven't had anything to do with them
yet, but you're going to right away. You'^re
going to bow and smile to each one, and tell
them how happy you are to meet them."

"You seem perfectly wild to-day, Dora," he
said, resignedly.

" If I weren't I should be sick at the way I'm
deceiving all these people — ^but I'm not. I'm
perfectly happy. And you must be happy.
Come on."

Vance ran his gauntlet with stoicism. Then
Dora let him go.

" I'm going to stay here to see Linda oflf, and
then I have to change my dress. I shall have
just time to get to the station — ^and if I am late,
remember, it is Leverett who is to wait over a
train for me. Good-bye, dear. Just a few days
more," she said softly. " Please let me be happy
in them, and begin to be happy yourself."

279

CHAPTER XI

DORA'S reckless mood lasted through the aft
ernoon. She was not much disturbed when
she found Leverett alone at the station^ and
learned that she had missed the train, though she
tried to be very sorry for the trouble which she
had caused him.

" I didn't have time to eat anything at Aunt
Bella's," she said. " Let's go to the counter and
sit on the high stools, and have ham sandwiches
and coffee until the next train is ready."

As they went to the train, she exclaimed :

"The papers! They'll have the account of 1
the wedding. I want to see them all."

Leverett obediently gathered up four or five
journals, and on the ride out they scanned them
carefully. Leverett read with special apprecia-
tion the passages which described the maid of
honour and her raiment.

" Did I really look as well as that? " she asked,
eagerly.

" Dora, I believe that you're getting vain," he
said. " I shan't tell you again that you were the
handsomest thing in the church."

"Do you think I am vain?" she asked,
gravely. " I have become horribly selfish and de-
ceitful lately, and I suppose vanity goes along
with that."

" You selfish and deceitful ! "

" Yes, really. You'll see how sometime. And

280

A WINGED VICTORY

I^m afraid you will — well, despise me for it, in a
w^ay — and I wanted your mother to like me,
too."

" Oh, didn't I tell you? Mother has had to
go away with father. And she insisted that we
should have a better time alone."

" I'm very sorry," said Dora. " She wrote me
a beautiful note about coming. Perhaps I shall
meet her later. Do you think we shall always
be friends — as good friends as now, Leverett?"

"Always and always," he answered, firmly.
" Our friendship is just beginning. That's why
I wanted to have this house-party, I mean — ^we
shan't be together, all of us, again — our crowd.
You know I am going East to the law school next
year, and we shan't see so much of each other —
you and I, Dora. And I'm afraid we shan't be
together much up here. We shall have to make
a rule against twoing, I suppose. But before
it's made won't you go out on the river with me
— to-morrow — early? We can get a lot of lilies
for the breakfast table, and have a good, old talk,
I've seen so little of you this year, Dora."

" I'd like to go, if I can get up, but I'm dread-
fully afraid that I shall oversleep. Don't wait
for me."

At Eggleston they found the dog-cart waiting,
and Leverett took the reins.

" Do you remember," he said, " how once I
wanted you to go buggy riding with me — home
from Arlington? "

" Yes," said Dora, laughing, " and how sorry
I was afterward that I didn't."

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A WINGED VICTORY

" So was I. And yet it might have been worse
for me if you had. How terribly angry you were,
though. And only to-day I felt that you had
really forgiven me."

" What made you feel that? "

"Why, when you said you would be really
glad to— to kiss me."

" Oh, Leverett, that was a joke — ^and I forgave
you long, long ago. But I shouldn't mind kissing
you, you know — ^at a wedding. Aren't we going
to be very late? Oughtn't we to drive a little
faster? "

" Tell me this, Dora, when you said that you
felt as if it were your wedding— did you think
you were being married to any particular per-
son?"

" I don't believe I did," said Dora. Then, as
the vision of Vance, playing the chief part on
the occasion, came to her, she began to laugh
again. "No, indeed, no. I couldn't think of
anyone else. It was just my wedding — ^nobody
else's, just mine, all for myself."

Leverett laughed, too, and gave the horse a
flick with the whip.

The Raymond country house was a great af-
fair in the worst Western-magnate style, which
imposed itself on the prairie by its size. On
two sides the lawns sloped down to the river ; on
the other two, conservatories, gardens, orchards,
and stables stretched away in miscellaneous suc-
cession. Dora thought the place far too grand
for a comfortable house-party, but those who had
preceded them had already begun to enjoy them-

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A WINGED VICTORY

selves. Vance should have had a good time. He
was treated with the distinction and the sym-
pathy due to a martyr ; but as the evening ad-
vanced, Dora saw that he was becoming moody
and restless. As the party was breaking up for
the night, she contrived to be alone with him
for a moment on the veranda.

" You don^t like it, Vance? '' she said. " Why
can't you enjoy it as much as you did at
Christmas? '^

" I can't forget that you belong to me, Dora,''
he said, bluntly, " and it makes me angry to see
you flirt with Leverett and Brown and the
others."

" I am not flirting," said Dora, outraged at
the word. "We can't both mope at the same
time. Never mind, dear, it's only for two op
three days."

" Won't you come out early to-morrow — at
sunrise," pleaded Vance. "We could take a
walk, and I should feel better if I had a little of
you before the day begins."

" Oh, Vance, I am sorry. Leverett has asked
me to go out on the river to-morrow — early."

" Leverett? Don't go, Dora," urged Vance.
" It's my time — the first bit of the day."

"But it's impossible, don't you see?" said
Dora. "Leverett is my host."

" And I am your husband." •

"Yes, but Leverett is my best and oldest
friend — and he's yours, too. We came up here to
please him, didn't we? Not because we wanted
to— apart from pleasing him. I didn't tell Lev-

283

A WINGED VICTORY

erott that I would go, but I think that Td
better/'

"What do you suppose he wants you for?"
asked Vance.

" I don't know, but I know why I want to see
him. It won't happen again for a long time,
and I think, Vance, that I had better tell
him that we are married — unless you want to,
to-night It may be my only chance to tell him
directly. I should have told him on the way up
if I had asked you."

" I should have said * No,' and I say so now,"
said Vance. " I like Leverett, but I don't want
anyone to know — until we are free. You see, it
puts me in such a ridiculous position. You may
tell him, or I will, just before we leave."

"All right, Vance, dear. It shall be as you
wish. No, don't kiss me here. Good-night."

Dora came down the next morning a little
timidly through the silent house, and went out
on the veranda. Apparently no one was stiriring^
but after a moment she saw Leverett appear
above the river bank and come striding toward
the house. His figure was gigantic in the morn-
ing mist

" How big Leverett has grown," she thought.
" And how gentle and good-tempered he is. He
used to be such a thorny, sulky boy. He will
make a wonderfully good husband for somebody
— maybe Constance."

She went down across the lawn to meet him.

" Oh, I thought you would come," he said, with

284

A WINGED VICTORY

some relief in his tone. " I've been down to get
the canoe ready/'

In the river bottom the mist was dense: it
folded them about from the sunlight like a warm,
clinging fleece. From the seat in the bottom of
the canoe Dora could see only Leverett, hover-
ing above her, paddling with easy strokes of
his brown arms. How strong he was — such a
strong friend. She wished above anything that
she might tell him.

" It is a funny, intimate feeling the mist gives,''
she said, " and pleasant, when you know that it
is all good weather beyond."

" Yes," assented Leverett, " when you know it
is good weather beyond. That is what I want to
know, Dora. I am in a sort; of mist — ^alone with
you. You spoke yesterday of the time I kissed
you. I couldn't help it. I loved you then, Dora.'

Fear came into Dora's eyes.

" Oh, don't say that, Leverett," she begged.

" I was a wretched little animal all right," he
went on, "But that night made me a decent
boy. I cleaned my life up. I have been — let me
say it — true to you, ever since. And now that I
am a man, out of college, ready to make my way
in the world — I have a right to tell you so,
haven't I, Dora? "

The fear made her pale, but it could not keep
the tenderness and thankfulness out of her face
as she met his eyes.

" Yes, of course, you have, Leverett And I am
very glad. But, please don't say anything more."

" Dora," he cried, and the sudden fear in his

28?

A WINGED VICTORY

voice seemed an echo of her own, " why mustn't
I tell you? We are alone here in the mist, as if
there were only the two of us in the world. Why
can't I speak to you? ''

Dora hid her face in her arms.

" No,'' she said, " you must not"

" But sometime I may? Next year? When I
come back from Harvard? "

" No. Never."

For a time there was no sound but the slight
splash as the paddle bit the water. Then Lever-
ett asked, very softly :

" Is it Vance? "

She nodded.

" Do you love him, Dora? "

The gentleness in his voice went to Dora's
heart. She raised her head and met his look
bravely, but when she saw the dumb pain in his
eyes she could only nod again.

"^^ And he could not help loving you. Are you
engaged to him? Is it wrong for me to ask? "

" No," she said. " We're not engaged."

" Then can't I ever hope? " he cried, desper-
ately. " Tell me, are you happy, Dora? "

" Yes," she answered, " I'm very happy, Lev-
erett. I must tell you. I'm — ^we're married."

"It is impossible!" groaned Leverett. "I
can't believe that. You wouldn't, Dora."

"You must believe it, Leverett. It's true.
We were engaged a year ago, and then when this
trouble about the poems came, we were married.
We haven't begun our honeymoon yet," she
smiled a little wanly. " We were going to Qlen-

286

A WINGED VICTORY

wood, after Linda's wedding, but I wanted to
come here first — because you wanted us to, I
am sorry that I am so stupid — such a fool. I
never guessed. You have done so much for me
— for us both, and I let you, because I thought
of you as a friend — ^the most perfect friend any-
one could have. Can you ever forgive me, Lev-
erett? ''

" I haven't anything to forgive,'' he said, jerk-
ing out his words with an effort for each one.
"You couldn't guess. I didn't mean that you
should. I've tried to be nothing but a friend to
you, since Peter died — a perfect friend. I'll
always try to be that — I always will be — sure.
I've had nothing but good from you, Dora."

" Oh, but you have, Leverett. I should have
told you ! I should have told you ! But it was
all so uncertain. I thought it might be years be-
fore we were married — and then it was all over
in a day. You must forgive me that, Leverett —
coming here without telling you."

"I can't forgive myself," said Leverett. "I
am the fool. I knew that Vance admired you. He
wi^ote the ^ Winged Victory ' for you. I guessed
that And I knew that you liked him, of course,
and I saw you being good to him, but I never
thought of your caring for him that way, as a
lover. I ought to have guessed that, too. I
ought to have known yesterday, when you were
so happy — ^and I thought it was for me." He
bent his head low to hide his eyes.

" Don't, don't, Leverett," -begged Dora.

" No, I won't," he cried, and his paddle swung

287

A WINGED VICTORY

again. " I am a brute — and to keep yon out here
listening to my whining when you want to be
with him. It was good of you to come, Dora—
and to tell me.''

The thick mist had faded into a yellow haze
through which they could see the boathouse and
float coming rapidly nearer as Leverett threw
out his arms to their full length at every stroke.

Once more he stopped.

" Will you tell me one thing, Dora, that is—
if I have a right to ask you? ''

" Yes, Leverett, I'll tell you anything."

" Could you ever have loved me — if Vance had
not come in? ''

She looked at him with wide eyes, wonder-
ingly.

" No," she said, slowly, " I'm sure — ^at least
I don't think so. I never thought of it until
now." Her words came more rapidly. "Why
do you ask that? What good will it do for me to
tell you? "

Leverett was leaning toward her intently, his
paddle on his knees.

" I want to know that more than I want any-
thing on earth, Dora. Tell me the truth. I can
stand it, what^er it is."

She met his gaze staunchly, but she knew that
the fear was coming again into her eyes and her
voice. Would she have loved him if Vance had
not been there? Surely, for she loved him now.
She had always loved him. Why could she not
say so simply?

" Of course I could, Leverett," she began, but

2.%%

A WINGED VICTORY

ler eyes were traitors. She covered them with
lier hands. "Oh, why did you make me tell
fou? '^ she gasped.

With a few wide strokes Leverett brought the
canoe alongside of the float. As he held her
hand to help her out he kissed it, near the wrist.

" If you'd answered the other way, I should
have claimed a bride's kiss,'' he said. " It's all
right, Dora. I can stand it — ^and I guess I'm
man enough to hope that you'll be the happiest
girl who ever lived. Now you want to cut this
cursed party, don't you? "

"No," said Dora, "but perhaps we'd better.
Vance might go back to the city to-night, and I
will go to-morrow to get the things I've left at
college. Then we are going to Glenwood. But
that's a secret, you know."

" And I'll try to arrange it so that the crowd
doesn't get too much on your nerves while you
are here," he added.

" No, It's good of you to think of it, but it
will be better to leave things alone. Vance is
going to write this morning, and I am in that
foursome. Don't think about us at all."

" I'll try not to," said Leverett

In the afternoon, as the whole party was gath-
ered under the trees in front of the house, a serv-
ant came out with a message for Leverett. A
few minutes later he came back and said, care-
lessly :

" It's a telephone call, for you, Dora. I'll show
you the way."

289

A WINGED VICTORY

Dora sprang up to accompany him. *^ Have
you any idea whom it is from? "

" Yes," he said, " 1^11 tell you in a moment'^
When they were out of earshot he continued:
"It was from The Evening Hawk. TheyVe
somehow got the story of your marriage, Dora,
and wanted to know if Dora Glenn, who acted as
maid of honour at Mrs. Melledge^s wedding, is
the same Dora Glenn who was married to Vance
Sterling at St. Jo on June 3rd. I answered it."

" What did you say, Leverett? "

" I told them that, as they had discovered.
Miss Glenn was at Mr. Raymond's house, and
that any personal references to his guest would
be very displeasing to him. I guess that'll st^
it. But the othjer papers will get it — ^may have
it already."

"I don't understand," said Dora. "What
business is it of theirs? "

" It can be made a very good story," said Lev-
erett, " and so it's very much their business. I
wonder that they didn't catch on to it before,
through Vance's name, but people over there
probably don't read the literary criticisms, and
they do the society column."

" I never thought of that at all," said Dora.
" I'm very glad that Linda is out of town, but
of course she'll see it, and the Melledges, and
Aunt Bella. Oh, what a mess I've made of it!
Will it be very bad, Leverett? "

" It may be very unpleasant and disgusting,"
admitted Leverett, "and they'll probably take
a few more shots at Vance."

290

A WINGED VICTORY

" We must stop it," said Dora, resolutely. " If
I went to all the editors and asked them,
wouldn't they agree to give up the story? "

"Why, perhaps,'* said Leverett, "but you
couldn't do that, Dora? "

" Yes, \ could," she insisted.

" I mean — it's Vance's place to do it — and I
don't believe he could bring it off."

" No, of course, he couldn't The papers hate
him so for what he wrote about the anarch-
ists.''

" I have an idea," said Leverett. " We will
give them the same medicine that The Hawk
took. I'll telephone to our advertising man,
who's a good fellow and a gentleman, and ask
him to see about it right away. But it's bound
to come out in some way, and I thought that per-
haps you would like to get away before that. I
wasn't sure — I know Vance would."

"Yes, you're right, Leverett I'm sure he
would. And it will be better every way. We
can go to Glenwood this afternoon, just before
dinner — only you will have to explain to the
others. Oh, Leverett, how will you do that? "

She looked at him, conscience-stricken. He an-
swered, forcing a very tense smile to break the
sullen lines of his face:

" Oh, I can do it. It's part of what was com-
ing to me. I held you up to come to my gradu-
ation party. I remember now perfectly that you
didn't want to. But I'm terribly glad, Dora, that
you're here — for me to take care of you a little.
It may be the last time that I can — ^that Vance

291

A WINGED VICTORY

will let me. Now I^m going to telephone. Yotf d
better go back to the others."

The afternoon wore away heavily. Dora had
kept up her spirits through the morning, but
now they flagged visibly. Leverett's absence was
remarked, and humorous explanations were sug-
gested. At last he returned, and set the party in
motion once more, for tennis, golf, or the river.
He succeeded in separating Dora from the ten-
nis squad, which she had somewhat forlornly
joined.

" I think it will be all right with the papers,"
he said. "Did you really want to play ten-
nis? "

" No, not at all, Leverett. It was beautiful of
you to see it and get me out of it. I am too tired
to play."

" I got you up too early," he said, repentantly.

" No, it isn't that It's only that I do harm to
everybody I touch — Linda, and you, and Vance.
I bring trouble with me."

"You are played out, Dora, or you wouldn't
talk that way. Do you think you had better go
to-day, after all? "

" Oh, by all means, Leverett. I couldn't stand
it another half hour. Everybody seems to sus-
pect, and I don't know what will happen. We
must go."

" Have you spoken to Vance yet? "

" No. I have had no chance at all."

"Well," said Leverett, reluctantly, "I'U get
hold of him and tell him how it is. And I'll
order the carriage for seven. And now, Dora, go

292

A WINGED VICTORY

upstairs and lie down — sleep. I'll tell them to
call you. Or shall I send Constance to you? "

He spoke in a hard voice, with the sentences
bitten oflf sharply, but Dora knew the tenderness
behind it.

" I feel as if you were my father, Leverett,"
she said, " or my Uncle Jack, my godfather, who
used to be good to me when I was a little girl.*'

" I wish I were,'' he muttered. " Maybe it
would be easier then."

^^ I don't want Constance," she continued, " but
I'd like it if you would come again, to see us off
— if you don't mind."

" Of course I'll be there, Dora. It will be my
best memory — ^that I helped you somehow to
your happiness "

Dora fled upstairs. She lay for an hour or two
in a kind of waking dream, her mind seizing
things and losing them— bits of her childhood,
of school life, of college. The sick, crippled
children that she saw in the slums came back,
but they changed into other children, vague and
beautiful, that she knew were her own. Her
father, Linda, Peter, Leverett, Vance — they
came and went like threads in the warp of her
dream. At last, when the world that had been
seemed about to fade away into nothingness,
there was a sharp knock at her door, and in-
stantly, as if she had been waiting for the sum-
mons, she rose and went straight forward into
the world that was to be.

On the stairs, she heard the voices of the others
in the dining-room ; but the maid who carried her

293

A WINGED VICTORY

valise directed her to the hall at the back of the
house^ and through the long alleys of the con-
servatory, where the hot, narcotic smell of the
flowers threatened to revive her dreams, out ]
into the sharp sting of the evening air. An open
carriage was drawn up at the gate, and Vance
and Leverett stood beside it.

" I've had them put up some supper for you,
Dora,'' said Leverett, in his suppressed voice.

The face he turned toward her was hard set,
the eyes without a gleam under his frowning
brows.

" Thank you," she said.

Vance held out his hand to help her in, but
she drew back.

" Get in first, please, Vance. I want to say
good-bye to Leverett last. I want to kiss you,
Leverett."

She put her arms around his neck, and her
lips touched his.

" It's the bride's kiss," she said, " and I want
to thank you — ^not just for the things that you
have done. Good-bye, my best friend, my perfect
friend."

She did not look back, though she knew that
he would be standing there as long as the car-
riage was in sight. He was the past, and she had
given herself loyally to the future. By and by
she let Vance draw her to him and kiss her —
kiss away, if he might, the memory of Leterett's
lips.

It was growing dark. The moon was coming
up red between the pale sky and the sombre

294

A WINGED VICTORY

prairie. Groups of lights broke out, close at
hand for Eggleston, far to the south for Arling-
ton, and, as they rounded the top of a ridge, a
few timid sparks for Prairie Grove. They were
almost home. Another ridge crossed, and Glen-
wood was before them, the long, low dwelling
bulking dark and forbidding in the moonlight.

They got out at the bridge, for Dora feared the
rotting timbers; and their bags and the lunch
basket were set down beside them.

" Wait here, dear,'^ said Vance, " while I carry
these up to the house, and get it open, and
lighted.^^

" No. I'll help you," returned Dora. " I
haven't a key, you know."

So, laden, they struggled up the weed-grown
driveway. The moonlight fell full on the ve-
randa, and showed the harsh^ inhospitable faces
of windows, with board shutters, nailed fast.
They found an axe handle on the way to the
stable, and having loosened a comer of one
shutter, they succeeded in forcing back the
boards.

" It's locked," said Vance, examining the sash.

" We shall have to break in, then," said Dora.

VancQ struck the glass a demolishing blow,
and with his stick knocked away the project-
ing fragments from the edges. The window
yawned, a black square in the moonlighted wall,
with darkness issuing forth from behind it, and
a cold breath upon the warm, scented evening.
1 Through it the lovers passed to their joy.

295

PART III

CHAPTER I

A CITY of the Middle West, with no geo-
graphical features to determine its growth,
meets the landscape in a wide, ill-defined fron-
tier, where the skirmish line of buildings ad-
vances irregularly upon the dejected prairie. It
is a place of uncertain character, neither town
nor country — ^and unforgivably desolate, espe-
cially in autumn before the snow comes. The
streets divide the fields into dull rectangles,
marked at the corners by dwellings which, in
spite of their newness, have a dusty and weary
air, as if they had been long on the march. In
the vacant spaces, the rank, uncut growth of sum-
mer weeds gives out a harsh note, as of scrannel
pipes, to the searching west wind. This same
wind brings dust, which powders the fields, waste
paper, which catches in the weeds, the fences,
the telegraph wires, — ^for the prairie, stretching
in relentless brown to the horizon, affords an
unbroken line of march for all the refuse of the
plain, from the Missouri to the Lakes.

To this desolate region Vance and Dora Ster-
ling, like thousands of other tentative families
whose future was but speculative, came to es-
tablish a home. They were loath to give up Glen-
wood, but they both realised that they must come
to closer quarters with the world which they
had to conquer. Vance had been offered a posi-
tion on a morning paper. Accordingly, with the

299

A WlilGED VICTORY

promise of this standing-ground in the arena,
they searched through the wilderness of apart-
ment houses for a flat of four rooms, near the
surface cars and the park, and without, Dora
insisted, a consol in the parlour. This last point,
however, they finally yielded, in view of more
practical considerations.

They brought up from Glenwood nearly all
the furniture that they needed, but they per-
mitted themselves an afternoon of shopping at
some of the easy-payment houses, just to com-
plete the experience. The home of which they
were the architects was finished on Saturday
night. Sunday they spent in telling each other
that it was good, in spite of draf ty windows, a
smoky, stove, and a piano overhead. On Monday
the day^s work began.

It was a long day, and the other days of the
week and of the year were like it. Dora always
rose early: and very quietly, not to disturb
Vance, she did the housework, and got break-
fast. She did not mind the morning silence,
for then the sun shone broadly in at the front
window, and she was not alone. Vance was
there, asleep. She could steal in softly and look
at him. Sometimes he smiled : she fancied that
he never smiled in his sleep unless she was there.
Before he was awake she had gone to the medical
school, but she always tried to return an hour
before he went out in the afternoon. Then they
got their dinner together, and Vance read to
her what he had written in the morning. She
walked with him until he had to take his car,

300

A WINGED VICTORY

when she turned back. It was then that the
lonely little apartment, full of shadows, op-
pressed her. Sometimes it seemed to her that
she could not go in ; and, her arms full of market
bundles, she would walk for an hour in the
park, until it was time for the lamps.

The day was longer because of the many hours
which they spent apart. At Glenwood they had
risen from bed together, to share in the house-
hold tasks, the out-door work, the reading aloud,
Vance's writing, the rides and walks. Now it
sometimes happened that they even missed the
hour of life in common at midday, if Dora was
delayed by her work, or if Vance had an early
assignment. The first time that this happened
Dora felt it as a catastrophe, and would have
sat down to cry, but for the note which Vance
had left for her.

She always awoke when Vance came home, at
two in the morning or later, and listened to his
story of the day. It was a repetition of the same
sordid feats of the scavenger of human life. For
example, he had been sent to look up a club of
church girls in Englewood, who were to give a
fair in aid of the Queen of Madagascar, and he
had been told to bring back photographs of the
prettiest The first two girls on whom he had
called were ugly, and he had not pressed them
for individual pictures, but accepted one of the
club as a whole. This would by no means do,
and he had been sent back to call on more girls
until he had found two or three who gave him
their photographs, on condition, of course, that

301

A WINGED VICTORY

they should not be published. One of the girls,
in a burst of confidence, had confessed that she
was not much interested in church work be-
cause she was to marry a Jewish gentleman.
This was a genuine scoop. Unfortunately the
girl had no photograph of herself, but her best
friend in Lake View had one. It was a long
trip to this remote suburb, but a fruitful one, for
the friend not only gave up the picture in ques-
tion, but also a most flattering one of herself, in
evening dress, and a piquant disclaimer of anti-
semitic prejudice on her own account. It would
have been a splendid triumph of journalistic
enterprise, but unfortunately Vance thought of
going to see the hero, who had a suspender fac-
tory on the Northwest Side. This gentleman had
objected so strenuously to publicity, and talked
so bitterly about reporters, that Vance had sup-
pressed the article. He had returned to the
office late, where they had looked askance at his
meagre harvest. Weary and discouraged, he had
taken a drink of whisky, and had fashioned a
half column out of school-girls' gossip. Dora
might see it in the morning headed, ^^ More than
Queen. Pretty Jenny Collins aids Madagascar's
Unfortunate Sovereign." And this was his day's
work.

Dora tried to laugh at this nonsense. It was
part of the trivial humour that played about the
great game of life. But as she listened, night
after night, to the story of his interminable
journeys, in weariness, cold, storm, and danger,
of his mortifying receptions, and the outrageous

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result of it all, she pitied him so that she was
nearer to crying. And sometimes she was angry.
One day Vance had been sent to make the rounds
of the hotels, to pick up stories about the guests.
At the Holland House there was a scandal : the
girl who kept the cigar counter, it was discov-
ered, was secretly married to one of the bell-
boys. Vance had recorded the circumstance
briefly, but his account had come back, blue
pencilled, "Not funny enough. Play it up.^'
And he had taken another glass of whisky and
done it.

" Oh, Vance," exclaimed Dora, " why did you?
Didn^t you think of — of usf ^'

" Of course I did," rejoined Vanc^ " but I've
got to hold my job, haven't I? "

. After a time, as Vance gained more important
assignments, fires, police reports, strikes, and
dance-hall iniquities might have added some
excitement to his narratives. But Dora did not
hear them. When she saw how appallingly tired
and nervous he was, she thought it better to pre-
tend to be asleep when he returned. The first
night it was with an effort that she kept her
eyes closed, and the tears gathered under her
lids as she heard him call her softly, and then,
after a time, go gropingly to bed in the dark-
ness. It was hard that he should miss this com-
fort at the end of his long day; but Dora knew
that recalling his experience in talk doubled his
weariness, and that the self-control which he had
to exercise to avoid waking her quieted bis
nerves, and helped him to sleep.

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A WINGED VICTORY

And as time went on, Dora came to count his
moments of sleep as carefully as she husbanded
their small resources of money. Life resolved
itself entirely into a matter of economy, of stay-
ing power. She had no doubt of Vance's future :
his poetry must take the world by storm some-
time, and his dramatic work seemed to her so
true, so close to humanity, that it could not fail ;
but the question troubled her, — Could they last
until that time? After the meagre extravagance
of their first weeks they discovered that they
had just enough weekly wage to keep their roof
over them, and buy the necessary food, fuel, and
light. Dora took the last of her money and dis-
counted the furniture bills. She gave up the
woman who came on Mondays to wash and clean.
Then she devoted herself to a study of diet and
cooking. How could two human beings keep
themselves in a state of maximum efficiency at
minimum cost? For unless she could solve this
problem, they must go down.

More than once, in the midst of this struggle,
Dora thought of giving up her medical work,
of staking everything on Vance's success. She
found, however, that she could not get a position
as a teacher — she, a girl who had left college to
be married! To be a stenographer she would
have to go to school. In the worst of the winter,
when Vance was laid up for a week with incipient
pneumonia, she went to some of the great shops
to apply for work as a saleswoman; but when
she told the managers that she had been married
only since June, they smiled and thought that

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A WINGED VICTORY

she would not do. She could not tell them that
she was not to have children, that she had agreed
with her husband that for two beings hanging
over a precipice it was immoral to produce others
to add to the strain, perhaps to fall with them.
So when Vance was well again, Dora went back
to her medical study with a determination to
fight it through, comforting herself rather bit-
terly with the thought that in two or three years
she would be of more use than if she devoted her-
self now to the superfluous business of the world
— to the teaching of conventional trivialities, the
copying of useless letters, or the selling of haber-
dashery.

Under this regime of rigid economy of all
resources, both Dora and Vance suffered from
the absence of relief, of variety. The monotony
dulled them, — they seemed to grow less conscious
of the world, even of each other. They were like
Arctic explorers, frozen into the ice, wearing
away the winter intent only on their diminish-
ing store of provisions, who come to see one an-
other, not as men, but as trees walking. The
very attempts which they made to lighten the
situation were so obviously futile that they were
pathetic. When Vance had an evening off, and
could get theatre tickets, they went to some ab-
surd show, each thinking that it would be good
for the other, and yet wondering if it would be
worth the car fares.

They were very solitary. Dora kept up her
connection with the Settlement by spending one
evening a week in the dispensary. Through his

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A WINGED VICTORY

association with workingmen, Vance had been in-
troduced to a group of radicals, who met under
the innocuous title of The Sanitary Science Club,
and he and Dora occasionally went to its meet-
ings. The regular frequenters all knew the
" Chant for the Anarchists," and Vance was
from the first a person of distinction among
them. This was the only appreciation that came
to him in these days, and Dora knew that he
needed it. Her old friends had vanished. From
her aunt and Linda she had not heard since the
announcement of her marriage. Leverett was
at an Eastern law school. Constance had gone
to Munich to study music. There was a rift in
the cloud of uniform loneliness one afternoon,
when the bell rang and Dora was confronted
by Brown's long, seriously humorous face. He
amused her with his gossip of Western, but her
own pleasure was alloyed by the thought that
it would be so good for Vance to see and talk to
him. When he left she made him promise to
come to dinner on Vance's next free evening.

That was an occasion to which they both
looked forward with excitement. They bought
beer and cigarettes, had the Aladdin oven put
into perfect condition, and Dora spent an hour
beforehand in trying to make their front room,
with its uncompromising desks, its rigid wicker
chairs, and scanty rug, take on an air of careless
bohemianism. The dinner was good, the beer
and the conversation were inspiring. After a
while Vance read his play. Brown thought the
first two acts, which had been done at Glenwood,

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A WINGED VICTORY

superb ; the rest — well, to put it frankly, pretty
bad. Both Vance and Dora were too oppressed
to react against his slashing criticism, — ^and
though they were ashamed to confess it, they did
not want to see Brown again.

In this war with circumstance, the chief moral
force was supplied by Dora. Vance lent him-
self to the campaign with a kind of discouraged
patience. He did not complain. If the dinner
was bad, he could make it up by his late supper
down town. But poor Dora found that, as in
the case of other reformers, her morality grew
at the expense of her temperament. She was
becoming rigid and intolerant. Even toward
Vance she was growing a little hard. She loved
him and pitied him, but she was angry with him
WTien, in a reckless mood, he broke in on their
system, and wasted their resources — ^that which
gave them their little chance in life. She was
sometimes impatient because he could not eat
and sleep and work by rule, anxious because now
he needed stimulants in order to work at all.
His illness in the late winter changed all this,
and brought back their good days. Dora gave
up her work to nurse him, and spent recklessly
to tempt his appetite. The world and their war-
fare with it vanished into the background, and
for the time there was nothing but their love
and their joy in each other.

In the days of Vance^s convalescence, when he
was able to walk out in the sunshine but too
weak and sick to work, they talked again of giv-
ing it up and going back to Glenwood.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" We can live in the summer on what we get
off the place," said Dora, " and in the winter on
magazine articles. It will be like the Garlyles at
Craigenputtock."

But at bottom they both hated to confess that in
this first attack on life they were beaten. It
seemed that Vance had a better chance of mar-
keting his play if he kept some formal connection
with society: and Dora ought certainly to com-
plete her years of study. So the struggle for ex-
istence began again, more relentless than before.

The spring brought them some encouragement :
at least they did not have to buy fuel, and Vance
was spared the terrible colds brought on by ex-
posure to the hard weather. Moreover, when
Vance had finished six months of service, his
salary was increased. For the moment it seemed
a triumph, quite worthy of the modest celebra-
tion which they gave it in the little restaurant
where they had dined so often as boy and girl.

A few weeks after this came the reaction. One
evening when Dora was eating her supper, she
heard Vance walk into the front room and sit
down heavily at his table.

" What's the matter, Vance? Why have you
come back? '^ she called.

He came and stood in the doorway, his face
fiushed with excitement, and his eyes bright

" Is that all you have for supper, Dora? " he
asked, looking at her cup of tea and bowl of rice
and milk. "IVe been eating like a prince, at
Bennet's. I had to let go."

Within the Arctic Circle the chief treason

308

A WINGED VICTORY

which a man can commit is to take more than
his share of the food, and Vance and Dora had
been obliged to adopt something of Arctic mo-
rality. Dora looked very grave as she asked :

"How did it happen, Vance?"

"Another raise," he replied.

" Oh, you dear ! " cried Dora, " Tell me about
it"

" It was a * scoop,' " said Vance, " a story no
other reporter in the city could get."

" And you got it? Quick, tell me."

Vance was watching her keenly.

" It was this way," he said. " Yesterday they
sent me to look up the engineer of the train that
ran into that Sunday school picnic at Maple-
ville. His name is Ferney, and his brother used
to be in my writing class at the Settlement. I
thought he would talk to me if he knew who I
was, and so I hunted up his brother, and got
him to go around with me. We found him in his
home somewhere out beyond the tracks, with his
wife and four or five kids. He was expecting to
be arrested, but he wasn't going to run, though
they allowed him time enough. Well, he gave
me a bully story, perfectly straight, because I
checked it up afterwards. He admitted running
past the signals, but he showed how he was
expected to run by them, and trust to luck and
judgment to get his train in all right. And he
admitted that his judgment was poor — ^he was
going forty miles an hour, taking chances, but
his train was two hours late through no fault
of his* And he was stupid in not slowing up on

309

A WINGED VICTORY

the curve — ^but he had been at work for eighteen
hours at a stretch. I wrote his story up just
as he told it. I wondered why they didn^t fea-
ture it this morning^ and I asked Peters about it.
He grinned, and said that it was a bully story,
that they'd had to hold it until to-morrow, but
that I'd be pleased all right. I was suspicious,
and asked to see it, and he showed it to me.
Dora, it was all cut to pieces — ^all the wrong
things Femey had done and none of the reasons
— ^and they were going to play it up as a con-
fession that relieved the railroad of all blame.
I asked Peters how much he got for suppressing
the real story, and he asked me if I wanted to
come in on the rake-oflf, and said that they^d
make me labour editor, and pay me five dollars
more. He saw that I was hot, and told me to
take to-day oflf and think it over. So I went to
dinner, and came home."

Dora was looking at him with such horror in
her eyes that his own grew uncertain.

"And you didn't say that it was a matter of
honour with you not to misrepresent that man? "

" Of course I did."

" But you didn't tell him that he must print
the account as you brought it in, or you'd
resign? "

" I wanted to, Dora, but — ^he'd have taken me
up. I'd have lost my job."

Dora had been near enough to poverty to feel
a shock at the words, but she rallied at once.

" I'm glad, Vance. Now you can do your own
work, your true work."

" I wish I'd been sure that you'd take it that

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A WINGED VICTORY

way," said Vance, with relief. " I was afraid
that you would think I'd made a break, and
fooled away a chance ^^

Dora went over to him and put her arms about
him.

" That is the hardest thing you could say to
me, Vance. And I suppose that I deserve it. I
have been cross about little things, but in a
really important one like this I could only be
proud of you for doing just plain right. Hadn't
you better telephone to Peters at once? Maybe
he'll give in, and print the story in full— or sup-
press it altogether.^'

" There's no chance of that," said Vance.
"But I'll telephone." He hesitated a moment.
"Are you sure that you understand just what
this means, Dora? "

" Quite sure," she said. " And I say again, I'm
glad that you're out of it. It means that you
have got to settle down to your real work, and
wan."

" I might get a chance on the Advertiser or the
Olobe/' considered Vance, with his hand on the
doorknob. " Or perhaps it would be better after
all to give up and go back to Glenwood? "

" No, no," cried Dora. " We thought that out
when you were ill, and decided that since you
were working on modern things you would have
a better chance to get your material and to
sell it if you stayed here. And we can't accept
this as a defeat. We mustn't yield an inch. If
we do, we shall both go to pieces. We must
fight it out, here."

311

CHAPTER II

VANCE went out next day in search of other
employment, but fruitlessly. A great strike
was pending; the newspapers were preparing
to defend society, and editors were not disposed
to be bothered by the presence of a radical re-
porter. In the summer he got some work, how-
ever, at space rates, and as the strike developed
he began to write a series of articles upon various
phases of the contest for a New York syndicate.
He worked hard at them, going to meetings of
the unions, interviewing the leaders, following
the mobs that tore up tracks and burned cars in
defiance of the police. Dora took a great interest
in his work, and they had high hopes of it
Day by day as they read in the newspapers
the distorted and expurgated accounts of what
had occurred, they were surer that Vance's story
would be an important and necessary piece of
history. But a few days after the first install-
ment went to New York, it came back with a
letter explaining that it was too radical. By
that time the troops were in the city, and public
opinion over the country was in a state of ex-
cited patriotism.

"People aren't interested any more in the
strikers,'' wrote the editor, "but in Qeneral
Gregg, and our boys in blue, and the old fiag.
Give us some of that."

" I've sent them exactly what they asked for,"

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A WINGED VICTORY

said Vance, bitterly, "the story of the strike
from the inside."

He took the returned manuscript, gathered up
a pile of newly written sheets and notes, and
thrust the whole mass into the stove.

Dora knew how deeply discouragement bit
into Vance^s character. She herself was ap-
palled at the practical outlook, but she put aside
this thought for the moment.

" Let's not think about it yet,^' she said. " This
is the time to go down and get a good dinner.
We might drop into the Sanitary Science meet-
ing afterwards."

Vance did not respond at once, but after a time
he gave a sort of tacit assent to the programme.

The Sanitary Science Club met in a lodge room
at the top of one of the high buildings down
town. On their arrival they found an audience
of perhaps a hundred sitting in the chairs in
front and listening to the lecture, while as many
more stood about on the outskirts, and took what
they cared to. Among the latter was Brown.
When they had found seats, he sauntered over
to them.

"I've been here occasionally," he explained,
" and to-night a friend of mine is talking about
Hauptmann. With all this excitement and pa-
triotism about them the Sanitary Science crowd
has to play safe for a while, and there is nothing
so safe as a college professor."

The lecture was conscientious and dull, but
after it there was the usual wild burst of talk
upon social topics. .The strike waA naturally to

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A WINGED VICTORY

the fore, and the attitude of the newspapers was
commented on with bitterness.

" I'm going to speak^ Dora,'' said Vance, un-
der his breath, ^^and tell about that stuff that
I wrote for the syndicate,"

But as he stood to catch the chairman's eye,
another man rose at the back of the room and
was given the floor. As the speaker went slowly
up to the platform, his grizzled beard and som-
bre, tired face bowed over his great chest, Vance
exclaimed, brokenly:

" That's Ferney — the engineer that I told you
about! I'd rather be anywhere than here. I
hope that he hasn't seen me."

Dora pressed his arm.

" But it's your chance to put yourself right
with him, Vance. Whatever he says, you must
speak afterwards, and tell the whole story. Be
ready as soon as he finishes."

Ferney told his story simply, without malice.
It was merely an illustration of how the poor
man failed to get his due in the court of public
opinion, where the ministers of justice were
owned by " the large interests." As he rambled
on to bis conclusion his eyes suddenly fell upon
Vance, and instantly his speech gained passion.

" That young man," he cried, " I gave him my
story because he was a friend of my brother's.
I told him God's truth, and he made it into a
confession. If they dared to bring me into court
they might hang me on it. That young man is
here to-night, and as I look into his face I look
into the face of a traitor."
^ 3U

A WINGED VICTORY

There was a shout from the audience. Dora
closed her fingers hard on Vance's.

" Now it's your turn. Quick," she whispered.

Vance leaped to his feet, with several others,
and before the chairman could choose among
them he was rushing to the rostrum. Dora shut
her eyes. Anything might happen in the next
minute. But she opened them, and met Vance's
bravely as he turned to face the people. His
first words gave her a confidence that she tried
to signal back to him as he continued.

" Am I that man? '^ he cried. " Femey, look
at me. Am I that reporter? "

Ferney, standing in his place, nodded.

" You'll take back your words in a moment,"
he continued. " Yes, it's true that Mr. Femey
told me his story — the straight story of an honest
man, for I checked it up afterwards. And I
wrote it out just as Mr. Femey gave it to me,
and handed it in to my paper. / know that that
story went to the I. O. and N. office, and came
back a confession, as Mr. Femey calls it. I told
the city editor that he could print Mr. Ferney's
story as it was or I'd get out — and I did. I
lost my job just as Femey did. And if Ferney
is ever tried I'll be there to stand for his story
as he told it to me. Now do you call me a
traitor? "

Femey, his eyes wet, went back to the plat-
form and held out his hand. The room shook
with applause.

^* And now," said Vance, " I have another,
story," and he told of the rejection of his arti-

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A WINGED VICTORY

cles by the New York syndicate. " They want
me to write about the soldiers, and the old flag,
and General Fuss-and-Feathers. I went to see
him once, and what do you suppose he talked
about? About making the Post Office into a
fortress, and keeping Gatling guns in the base-
ment for killing the people faster. That's the
stuff that the newspapers and magazines want
to publish. But I swear that the true story of
this strike, as I know it, and you know it, shall
be put before the world. It shall be known pub-
licly who started the riot at the Suburban Cen-
tral station, and who is responsible for burning
the cars at the stockyards. If I give my life
to it, the world shall know who are the rioters,
the destroyers of property, the traitors,"

At this point the chairman prudently brought
down his gavel, and Vance went back to his
place. Dora clasped his hand again, and bowed
her head under the storm of cheering. She was
too proud to speak — too glad. Here at last
was his mission, and something told her that
it would be his salvation.

After the meeting Brown invited a number of
the Sanitarians to drink some beer in a neigh-
bouring restaurant Vance was still excited, and
did most of the talking. He had a plan for pub-
lishing his strike exposures by subscription, of
founding a novel on them.

" Why don't you throw your remarks into the
form of a play? '' asked Brown. " It is impossi-
ble to get truth before the public in any form
which it regards as serious, like the newspaper,

316

A WINGED VICTORY

or the novel. But at the theatre everybody is
relaxed and a little frivolous, and therefore open-
minded. You could do with this strike what
Hauptmann has done in Die Weher/^

" Splendid ! " cried Dora, clasping her hands.
" You will do that, Vance, won't you? "

" I'll try it," said Vance, now a little weary
with the reaction, " if I can get up my material
again. I believe I burned all my notes.''

"Oh, no," laughed Dora. "You only put
them into the stove, Vance, and we're too poor
to keep a fire in July."

They went home that night in a mood of exal-
tation that Dora refused to let die. They sat up
late sketching the outline of the play, which was
to be called simply " The Strike." In the morn-
ing Dora blew the embers again to a flame, and
in the next week Vance turned off a brilliant
first act, so that he could say quite nonchalantly
to Brown, who called one evening:

" The play? Oh, it's virtually finished."

Dora knew that the difficult practical problem
of existence was before them for many months.
She had solved it, however, in her own mind, on
their way home from the meeting. In the winter,
at the time of Vance's illness, she had first
thought of becoming a nurse. She had put' the
plan aside then because it involved leaving her
husband, and giving up their home, but now she
saw that if Vance was to succeed in the race he
must run without her. She thought that a nurse's
training course in the summer, in addition to the
medical work which she had already done, would

317

A WINGED VICTORY

be sufScient to gain her an appointment at St.
Mark's Hospital in October.

Vance, as she expected, set himself violently
against the plan when she broached it.

" But don't you see,'' she urged, " that a year
of nursing will be the best thing for me when
I begin to practise? And if I am in St. Mark's
you will be free to go to New York next fall, and
see the managers yourself about the play. You
thought that they might have taken the other
if you had not left it to the agents."

" I shall always feel, Dora, that it is a disgrace
to me to have you earn your living."

"But, Vance, it was always understood that
I was to earn my own living. We never thought
of anything else."

" You were to practise medicine, not be a nurse
— ^but of course I can't object."

He turned heavily back to his work. Dora
went to him, knelt down, and looked up into
his face.

" Dear, of course you can object, and I shall
do as you say, but think what a year of hospital
practice will do for me, and how it will make
everything simple for us both. Only a year,
Vance, and all our life at stake ! "

Vance put his hand on her head where the
parting showed white between the waves of
deep brown.

" You're the best woman in the world, Dora,"
he said, " and the wisest."

"No, I'm not," laughed Dora. "I'm pretty
sure to be wrong. I haven't any head, you know.

318

A WINGED VICTOEY

That I've thought of this makes me doubt it —
but there seems no other way. I'll see Dr. Bell
to-morrow about the appointment"

It was seven years since Dora had been in Dr.
Bell's office, but she remembered it perfectly.
There was the table full of ancient magazines,
the chair on which Peter had sat and dangled
his legs. She could almost identify the marks
on the rungs where his restless feet had kicked
them. She told the secretary that she was not a
patient, and would wait ; but she wrote her name
on a card, and in a moment the doctor came out
to her. His iron-grey head had whitened, but
he had the same quick, buoyant step, the same
look of nervous, Jboyish strength.

" Dora Glenn," he cried. " Why haven't you
been to see me before? I have reproached myself
a dozen times in the last two years for losing
sight of you. You were at college, weren't you? "

" Yes, but I'm studying medicine now, and I'm
Dora Sterling. I used the old name because I
knew that you would remember me by it."

" Well, well, come in. What can I do for you?
You haven't any children, have you? I've cut
out nearly all my general practice lately for
them."

"No," said Dora, "but I want to practise
among children, too — and I came to ask you if
you could get me into the children's ward at
St. Mark's next year— as a nurse, I mean.
I've been a year at the medical school, and had
some work in the Free Dispensary at the Col-,
lege Settlement"

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A WINGED VICTORY

" H^m," said the doctor. " But you are — ^have
been — married — ^and you're not in mourning."

He looked approvingly at Dora^s white dress
and flowering hat.

^^Yes/' said Dora, meeting his gaze with
earnest eyes. " My husband has to go to New
York next year. He is a writer — a dramatist."

" Oh, yes. Well, why don't you go, too? "

"We haven't money enough. And I am in
the midst of my studies. I hope to finish, —
and I think a year of nursing will help me. I
will take the training course this summer, and
if I could have an appointment in St. Mark's

for the next year Of course I want it for

selfish reasons, but my real work always will be
among children."

" Your own, I hope," said the doctor, bluntly.

" I hope so," said Dora, " but for others, too.
I should like to practise among the poor, even
if I don't have to for money."

"Well," said Dr. Bell, after a moment's
thought, "it's sufficiently unusual, but I sup-
pose it can be arranged. I'm glad to have a
chance to help you — ^your father's daughter.
Come to see me again — not about this — I've seen
you nurse twice, and I'm sure of you — ^but any-
thing else I can do. Good-morning."

So the next day the routine began again for
Dora. She had to start early for the hospital —
but this was not a hardship, for she made the
acquaintance of the day while it had its fresh-
ness and promise. Then the long, grey corridors
and blank, cool wards of St. Mark's, where life

A WINGED VICTORY

and death passed in such ordered, measured fash-
ion, were a refuge in these evil days of heat and
violence. She emerged into the glare of late
afternoon almost with shrinking. She always
saw the sun, a ferocious red through its nimbus
of dust, westering above the trees, whose leaves
were like a scurf, in the little park in front of
the hospital. Then came a long ride across the
city, more than ever squalid and dishevelled in
these days of semi-anarchy, and a walk through
the pathetic little suburb, where clouds of dust
marched like battalions from the prairie to the
lake, and the weeds, now growing as tall as her
head in the gutters and vacant lots, almost hid
the sidewalks from sight.

She usually found Vance at work in his pa-
jamas, for their apartment under the roof was
as hot as an oven. They always went for a walk
in the faded park, wandering for an hour in the
twilight with the silence of fatigue upon them.

" We go about like ghosts," said Dora, one day.
" It^s the heat, I suppose. We shall come to life
again in the fall."

But the autumn meant separation, and they
could not look forward to it. When the time
came so near that they had to speak of it, Vance
renewed his opposition.

" I can^t live without you, Dora," he said. " I'd
rather give it all up and go into the country, —
anywhere so that we can be together."

"No, you wouldn't, Vance," said Dora, de-
cidedly. "Not after a year or two. Do you
know, dear, I think you aren't strong enough to

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A WINGED VICTORY

live without success? You would grow hard
and bitter. This is your chance in life, and you
must take it. And then it^s your duty to make
every effort to get ^ The Strike ' before the pub-
lic. And it^s very good, Vance. I'm sure that
if you take it to the right people it will go."

In their last days together they made prepara-
tions for this final assault on the citadel. They
went over all Vance's manuscripts — stories,
poems, articles — ^and mustered a picked squad of
them to serve as the forlorn hope. Then Vance
must have the equipment of a leader, and Dora
took great satisfaction in selecting his shirts,
ties, and travelling outfit. They had decided
that he should go like a gentleman — a man of
the world, and of letters.

"As soon as the play is accepted," she said,
** you must order a new dress-suit for the opening
night"

To finance the expedition they sold nearly all
their household goods. It cost Dora a pang to
let the things that she had brought from Glen-
wood, from her childhood, go into strange hands
— her father's desk, the table at which she and
Peter had sat and studied.

On their last afternoon they were awaiting
the moving men to dismantle the apartment.
It grew late, and Vance was ready to leave for
his train.

" They won't come now," he urged. " Let us
go to the station together."

But Dora refused.

" I'll wait for them," she said. " And our real

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A WINGED VICTORY

good-bye must be here anyway." She clung to
him a moment. " Vance, dear," she murmured,
^* be strong — really and truly strong."

After he had gone, and the apartment had
been cleared, Dora put on her nurse's cloak and
bonnet, feeling strange, and yet somehow safe
and glad in them, and sat for a moment on the
window-seat, taking leave of the year past. It
was growing dark. A flurry of drops spattered
the pane. In an hour she would be in her cell-
like chamber at St. Mark's, and Vance would be
eating his dinner in the dining-car.

There was a sound of quick steps on the stairs
outside. Dora knew instantly that Vance had
come back. She ran to open the door, and he
caught her in his arms.

" What is this? " he said, feeling her bonnet
strings and cloak.

" It's my uniform," said Dora, trying to free
herself.

" My God," he cried, " I never thought of this !
Take it off. There, that's over. Now, Dora,
aren't you glad to see me again? "

" Yes," she said, " very glad. But what has
happened? Did you miss your train? "

" No, I was at the station a quarter of an hour
too soon, and I had all that time to think it
over. And then I saw the train come in, and
the conductors tried to hustle me aboard, but
I said I wasn't going. And then I watched the
train pull out again, — ^and I came back to you."

" Oh, Vance, dear," sighed Dora, " it is dread-
fully hard, but it doesn't make it any easier to

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A WINGED VICTORY

play with it this way. You must go to-night^
and I must be at St Mark's by six."

" No, we'll give it up," said Vance. " It isn't
worth while. You telephone to St Mark's that
you've thrown up the appointment, and '^

" But we can't change now," said Dora. " The
furniture has gone."

" Oh, has it? " said Vance, crestfallen, and he
took a step into the apartment, haggard and
empty in the grey light

" Dora," he pleaded, " telephone to St Mark's
that you will come in the morning, and let us
have this one last night I will leave on one of
the early trains, and not lose even a day."

" It's so weak," said Dora. " I'm sure it is
bad for us both to yield to it."

^^ But if it makes no difference to them at the
hospital," urged Vance.

" No, I won't ask permission. If it must be,
I'll take the consequence. You can telephone
that I will come to-morrow at nine; and bring
some bread and butter — ^and milk — ^and cakes —
candles. The gas has been turned off. We can
make a shakedown of the things in your bag and
mine, and use my cloak as a blanket — if you
don't object to it."

"Oh, we shall get along," said Vance. "It
will be like our first night at Glenwood."

"Yes," murmured Dora, — "except that that
was summer, and this is autumn — ^and we are a
year older."

324

CHAPTER III

FOR the next few months Dora^s life centred
about the letters from Vance, describing
the ebb and flow of his battle in New York, At
first it was steadily ebb. The carefully chosen
storming party of poems, stories, and essays
went down before the heavy guns of the great
magazines, and as for his plays, it was impos-
sible to bring them into action at all. By Christ-
mas his funds were exhausted, and he thought
of returning. Fortunately Dora was earning a
little beyond her expenses, and could supply
him for a few weeks more. Then came a glim-
mer of hope. He had met Bergmann, the czar
of the American theatre, and had talked to him
about his play. Bergmann had seemed inter-
ested, and had promised to read it. The glimmer
grew to a gleam, Bergmann had read "The
Strike," and thought that, with certain changes,
it would succeed : he proposed to try it on Chi-
cago in the autumn, Vance was standing out
against the changes. Suddenly the gleam broad-
ened into a great light. There was an opening
at one of the New York theatres — ^a star had
suddenly gone crazy and shot madly from her
sphere; her play was withdrawn, and "The
Strike" would go to rehearsal at once if they
could agree on minor matters. Vance thought

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A WINGED VICTORY

that they could. It was a great chance — fame
and fortune at a single blow.

Dora's heart was passionately in all this. It
was the poetry, the romance, which broke into
the uniform prose of her daily life, in which her
mind and her hands were given to her duties in
St. Mark's. But this life, even in its monotony,
was good. She liked her work and the people
among whom she did it. She found pleasure in
the submergence of her personality in the sys-
tem of the comely, beneficent institution. After
a year of uncertainties and problems and crises,
it was a relief to be submitted in outward things
to an unvarying order. In the days of anxiety,
since she could not help, it was good to be kept
absolutely, mechanically busy : and when things
began to brighten, Dora was perfectly happy to
be at work for Vance, leaving him free to meet
responsibilities of success.

Nor would she have called all her hospital
life prose. She had been placed in the orthopae-
dic ward, where her immediate chief was Dr.
Bell. It was an inspiration to accompany him
on his early morning rounds, to make one of that
little company of internes and nurses that he
directed with military brevity and precision, to
follow that light, eager step from bed to bed,
to catch the gleam of hope in childish eyes as
he so deftly, so surely, probed the secret of suf-
fering and deformity. The long hours were not
slow, as she worked among the little children,
fulfilling the human mother-instinct in her, be-
coming a part of the great new motherhood of

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A WINGED VICTORY

Science, which was striving patiently and skil-
fully to correct what the first mother, Nature, in
her rage of life-giving, had done so tragically
amiss. It was in this very ward that Peter had
lain. She never entered it without seeing his
dear, anxious face in the fourth cot. No, it was
always another's — but so like his in its patient
long-suflfering of the world's wrong, and its swift
response to the sound, the sight of her coming.

After a time Dr. Bell made her his assistant
in the operating-room. At first it was her part
only to prepare the little bodies for the ordeal,
to clothe them in their white robes, to disperse
the strange, childish fears, — the imps that at-
tend in such fantastic forms on the King of
Terrors, — to give the comfort of her hand and
voice and eyes. One day the ansBsthetician made
a slight blunder, and Dr. Bell signed to her to
take the place. Thenceforth this office was hers,
and it was the holiest of all — to give to her
beloved merciful sleep, while the master healed
them, as it were, by the laying on of his
hands.

For the lighter side of hospital life, the trivial
gossip and intrigues, Dora had little time or
attention. She had no intimate friends among
the other nurses — ^all her personal interest was
absorbed in her sympathetic concern with Vance
and his career. It was with surprise and disgust
that she learned one day that she was supposed
to enjoy a favoured position in the institution,
because her aunt was a member of the board of
managers.

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A WINGED VICTORY

" That is perfectly malicious," she said, indig-
nantly, to her informant " Why, I never even
knew that my aunt was connected with the
hospital — ^and she hasn't an idea that I am
here."

She reflected afterwards, however, that the
situation prepared the way for her reunion with
her family ; and she was not surprised when, a
little later, she was summoned to the visitor's
parlour to meet Linda, who seized her hands, and
kissed her not once but many times. Dora was
a little abashed at not being able to equal the
fervour of these manifestations of affection.
Linda had not used to be so demonstrative.

"My poor, poor Dode!" she kept saying.
"My dear little sister! I am so glad to have
found you."

" But, Linda, you hadn't lost me," answered
Dora. " I wrote you after my marriage, and I
told you that we were to be in the city through
the year."

" Yes, but you didn't send me your address,^'
rejoined Linda.

" When you didn't answer my letter, I thought
that you were angry with me, for deceiving you
about my marriage before your wedding," said
Dora. "And I was dreadfully sorry and
ashamed about that, but it seemed at the time
as if I couldn't do anything else."

" Yes," said Linda, " that might have been a
horrid scandal if the papers had got hold of it.
I never understood how we escaped. But I
could not answer you right away. It was such

328

A WINGED VICTORY

a disappointment to us all — ^your marriage. It
was that as much as anything that broke Aunt
Bella down nervously. She has been in the sana-
torium, you know, almost continuously."

"Why, Linda," returned Dora, with 'some
warmth, " Aunt Bella never cared whether I was
alive or dead."

" No," admitted Linda^ " but she cares a lot
whom you marry, and what church you go to.
And to have an anarchist for a nephew-in-
law "

" But Vance isn^t an anarchist, — ^at least, not
what she understands by anarchists."

" Well, never mind, dear Dora. I didn't mean
to reproach you. You must come right home
with me, and I will write to Aunt Bella, and we
will decide later what is to be done."

" But I am here on an appointment — ^until
next June," said Dora.

" But Aunt Bella is on the board of visitors
of the hospital, and I am taking her place this
winter. That is how I happened to be here this
afternoon. We can arrange everything. And
you must come out of this place. Poor Dora!
You have lost all your colour, and have wrinkles
at the corners of your eyes. And you were just
growing so pretty, too. But I suppose that you
have had troubles enough. Is — ^is he dead— or
has he left you? "

" Who? " cried Dora. " My husband? He is
in New York. He is a writer. He has a play
coming out very soon, and he has to be there
for the rehearsals. And as I am studying medi-

329

A WINGED VICTORY

cine it seemed best for me to go into the hospital
for a year to get experience as a nurse/'

Linda's flow of pity was partly checked*

" But don't you need any things Dora? Money
—OF clothes? "

" No, nothing at all, Linda/'

"And Mr. Sterling is a playwright?'' Linda
began in a different tone. " What theatre is his
play going to be at? Perhaps Mr. Melledge and
I may go to see it in New York.^'

" I don't remember the theatre. It is one
of Mr. Bergmann's. If it succeeds it will be
given in Chicago in the fall. It's called * The
Strike,' and it's rather an anarchistic play. 1
doubt if you and Aunt Bella like it"

" Oh, nobody minds anarchy on the stage. But
to write poety about them! Oh, Dora, you did
make a mistake. You were so pretty at my
wedding — ^you might have married anybody
there. We all hoped that you would be engaged
to Leverett Raymond that day — ^and all the time
you were married to this Mr. Sterling! Why
did you do it, Dora, when you might have mal'-
ried Mr. Raymond? "

*^ I married Vance because I loved him," said
Dora, " as I would have married Leverett, for the
same reason."

" But you know that he was in love with you,
for two or three years at least, Dora."

Dora looked at her sister with unquiet eyes.
The memory of Leverett's love she had locked
in a secret place of her heart — and she had
thrown away the key. To find that another

330

A WINGED VICTORY

person had ' picked it up was a surprise and
temptation also. She hesitated — then yielded
to it

" How do you know that he was in love with
me, Linda? "

" I knew it the first time I met him at your
party, by the way he looked at you. And af-
terwards, whenever I saw him, he always wanted
to talk about you. Do you mean to tell me that
you didn't know that he worshipped the ground
that you Walked on? I knew it."

Linda was preparing to leave. Dora thought
her golden beauty more resplendent than ever
above her white furs.

"I hope that Mr. Sterling's play will be a
great success," Linda said, "and that he will
be an honour to the family after all. In that
ease I'll write to Aunt Bella that she can forgive
you. Come to see us, Dora. Mr. Melledge has
asked me a dozen times in the past year to look
you up. Good-bye, little sister."

In these days, Vance's letters came more ir-
regularly. He was busy with the alterations and
rehearsals of the play. He wrote most fre-
quently when things were going badly ; when no
single actor was satisfied with his part, and
everyone rejected the carefully elaborated stage
directions in favour of time-honoured "busi-
ness"; when the nearest approach to the garb
of poverty and toil which the actresses would
wear was a kind of Carmen costume. Gradually
matters cleared up. Dora gathered that the play

331

A WINGED VICTORY

was to be more of a spectacle than he had
planned. Since Bergmann was willing to si>end
the money, Vance wrote, he had decided that
there might as well be a few more ensemble
scenes and spectacular features.

On the afternoon of the day itself a meagre
telegram from Vance announced that the last
rehearsal had gone decently; and Dora waited
tensely for news of the opening. She thought
of the great first nights of history — of the pre-
mUre of " Hemani." If that marked the vic-
tory of romanticism in the French theatre,
"The Strike'^ might be the first gun of the
Revolution on the American stage. As she went
her rounds in the evening she timed the move-
ment of the scenes in her mind, for she knew the
play almost by heart. Now the hero must be
giving his great speech in the third act, denounc-
ing capital which corrupted legislatures, courts,
newspapers, and the souls of workingmen, which
was the real traitor to the institutions of the
republic. How were they taking it — ^the children
of capital who, it was to be hoped, were paying
for the seats at the theatre?

In the morning there came a telegram from
Vance announcing the success of the play; and
with one of congratulation from Linda. She
and her husband were in New York, and had
loyally gone to the first night. In the midst
of her happiness Dora could not help wincing.
She should have been there, not Linda.

A day later came Vance's letter, with a bundle

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A WINGED VICTORY

of clippings affirming the triumph. It is true, the
critics refused to admit that " The Strike '' was
a play at all, preferring to qualify it as " theat-
rical journalism," and the like, but they agreed
that it was an interesting departure, an attempt
to take possession for the drama of a field which
it had occupied in the time of Shakespeare. One
thing surprised Dora — the absence of any de-
nunciation of the theme of the play, the defence
of the workingman's right to appeal to indus-
trial warfare. This meaning was too clear to be
mistaken : had the critics ignored it as a matter
of policy, or were they convinced beforehand?
She gave up the puzzle and reread Vance's let-
ter. It was written early in the morning after
the performance, when the intoxication of suc-
cess was still upon him. The first act had not
taken the audience, but the applause at the sec-
ond had been tremendous, and after the third
he had stumbled out on the stage to return
thanks. After the curtain was rung down for
the last time, he had had supper with Bergmann
and some actresses, and he had signed a contract
for another play, to be delivered in the next
autumn.

At the end of the letter there was a passage
about Linda.

"Your sister and her husband were at the
theatre," he wrote, "and asked me to come to
their box. They were very cordial, and enthusi-
astic about the play, which they call a great
incident in the invasion of New York by Chicago.

333

A WINGED VICTORY

I am to dine with them to-morrow, and meet
other leading Chicago people who are in the
city.'^

Dora tried to reason herself into keen satis-
faction at the existence of these happy relations,
but she could not help feeling somehow de-
frauded. Now that she and Vance had some-
thing to give Linda, she wanted, with a quite
human longing, the satisfaction of giving it
herself.

A conscientious account of the play was
brought to her a few days later by Nicholas Mel-
ledge. He had been particularly impressed by
the realism of the modem mob on the stage, and
the skill with which it was controlled by the
police.

"I never saw anything better," he declared.
" When the show comes to Chicago, I'll head a
subscription to have our police force taken in
squads to see that scene. It will be a lesson to
them."

Dora reflected that Nicholas was a man of
conventional education and narrow sympathies.
It was odd, though, that the point of the play
should have missed him also, since he must have
had the benefit of Vance's interpretation.

^^ Has Linda come back? " she asked, willing
to change the subject.

" No," responded Melledge. " She's visiting at
Lakewood. Vance is going out over next Sun-
day. He gave us a supper to meet Miss Ellis,
his leading lady. Linda's quite taken with his
theatre crowd. I expect that my wife and your

334

A WINGED VICTORY

husband are having a pretty good time in New
Yorky and I thought that we might even things
up by going on a little bat ourselves now and
then."

'Dora explained that her duties at the hospital
were too confining to allow her to accept his
kindness.

" Well, let me know if I can do anything for
you/' said Melledge. "We're both victims of
desertion, and we have a right to what fun we
can get out of it."

At this Dora admitted to herself that she was
rather hurt and sore. She was not jealous, but
her mind revolted at the unfairness of it. The
success that she and Vance had hoped and
worked for together, had come, and he was tast-
ing the first fine fiavour of it with Linda by his
side. To Dora, immured within the walls of St.
Mark's, it seemed grotesquely cruel.

She tried to put this feeling as far from her
as she knew it really belonged, but it was hard.
She recognised in its persistence the fact that
she was tired and nervous. The day of Vance's
triumph had brought to her a reaction after the
long period of suspense, when she had held her-
self tense and firm, as if on her wings depended
his fiight above the abyss of failure. Now that
it was over, now that his feet were on firm
ground, she felt unspeakably weary. While
their separation had had the absolute character
of necessity, she had borne it simply enough;
now she wanted to have him come back, or to go
to him. She recognised in her mind that it was

335

A WINGED VICTORY

well for Vance to stay on in New York until
" The Strike '' came West. Since he was to do
other plays for Bergmann^ he should see as much
as possible of the world of the theatre and come
into relation with people of importance. And
she admitted the force of other reasons, as Vance
stated them.

" If you must keep on with your hospital work
until summer/' he wrote, " it would certainly be
very awkward for me to be hanging around Chi-
cago. If you can give up your appointment—
and Linda thinks she can arrange it — ^you ought
to come to New York at once.'*

Dora replied to this that she could not de-
cently give up her position, even if Linda secured
a formal assent from the hospital authorities;
and she agreed that it would be an awkward
situation if Vance returned very long before her
appointment was over, — ^while she was virtually
a nun.

But this reasonableness hid a sorrowful and
troubled spirit. She was anxious, foolishly anx-
ious she told herself, about the play. The con-
stant changes of which Vance wrote her seemed
ominous. And she was anxious about himself.
Did he need her as she needed him? She had
told him that he was not strong enough to live
without success. Could he live with it? She
reproached herself for doubting, and yet his
letters seemed, to her tired mind, to mark a
change, a drifting away, at the moment when
their true life together was to begin.

Her unalloyed satisfaction in her hospital work

336

A WINGED VICTORY

was sadly shaken, now that she found it ^ direct
" No '' to the strongest affirmation of her life. The
children that she soothed and comforted day by
day were taking the place of others, even more
real to her — her own. When she uncovered the
shrunken hips, the crooked backs, the withered
legs and arms, she felt a sudden repulsion. It
was not that she no longer loved the little souls
that looked out of eyes, wistful with uncompre-
hended suflPering, set in pain- worn faces. No;
if anything she loved them the more. But it was
no longer with her clear calmness and sanity. To
make life anew, in perfect and lovely forms, was
so much more than to reshape it from mistakes
and perversions that she was bitter against the
world. Nature, God, their parents — whatever it
was that had made them thus, and that now held
her bound in their service, in submissive but
heart-stricken devotion. In this stress of emotion
it was hard to hold herself firm, to keep her hand
steady and her eye true. She did it, but it was
with her nervous, vital strength that, day by
day, she paid — ^and night by night , heartsick
with the sorrow of love, she murmured, " May he
only come to me."

337

CHAPTER IV

THE opening of "The Strike'' in Chicago
was set for Easter, and to this Dora looked
forward as the beginning of the new day, be-
fore which her shadows wonld flee. She hnng
npon the announcements in the newspapers, and
almost repined when she read that, owing to the
enormous success in New Yor^, the Western
opening 'would be postponed. But, at last, the
billboards blossomed forth with highly coloured
reproductions of the scenes which she remem-
bered; and one day she went to the theatre to
see the lines of people coiling slowly up to the
box-offices, for the advance sale.

Vance was to arrive on the morning of the day
of the opening. Dora telephoned to the station
to learn that the train was on time. A little
later came an answering call, and she heard her
husband's voice.

" Is that you, Dora? " he asked.

"Yes, yes, dear Vance. Can't you come? I
can be free for a few minutes."

" I can't at this moment, Dora. We're to have
a rehearsal right away. Could you come over
to the theatre? I want you to see the play be-
fore the regular performance."

" Oh, Vance, I'm so sorry. Perhaps I might
have arranged it if I had known in time. But
I am ofif for the evening, you know."

338

A WINGED VICTORY

"Then meet me at the Holland House for
luncheon at one, Dora/'

" But you see, Vance, someone else would have
to take my work."

There was a pause.

" But I must see you before the evening. I
want to tell you about things. Shall I have to
come to the hospital? '*

It was Dora's turn to pause. She knew that
Vance hated the place, and she would have to
be in her uniform. She had permission to lay
it aside for the evening.

" No, please don't, Vance," she replied. " It
would be better to wait until I am off duty."

" Then I'll come at six to get you for dinner.
I've invited Linda and Nick to dine with us."

" Oh," said Dora, and in spite of herself her
voice changed. " I thought Linda was at Lake-
wood."

" She's come back — really to boost the play, I
think."

" But I can't come even at six," resumed Dora,
haltingly. " I'm on duty anyway until then, and
I can't be sure. And besides I have to dress. I
shall make you late. I will join you at dinner,
as soon as I can."

There was another pause.

" It seems pretty hard, Dora."

" It's hard on us both, but we'll have to stand
it. Anyway, the play is the thing. I am looking
forward to that as the great moment of my life."

" Surely, Dora." His voice was once more
ringing. " I hope it will repay you for — every-

339

A WINGED VICTORY

things you know. It's going to be away ahead
of the New York show. Bergmann's given me a
free hand. I've got to hurry over to the theatre
now to see about things. Good-bye, dear. Don't
be too tired to-night."

The day was unusually hard. Dora told her-
self that she was glad after all that Vance had
not come over, though his coming would have
shortened it. And, as it happened, she was de-
layed. Watching the clock, she saw the dinner
hour pass moment by moment, and at last she
had only time to dress, and reach the theatre.
Except for Vance's discontent, she preferred to
have it so. It seemed to save the occasion for
her alone.

She stopped at the office for her ticket, and
they led her along a corridor leading to the boxes,
just as the last fanfare of the orchestra an-
nounced the rising of the curtain. The usher
pushed open a door. It was the right one. There
in the light sat Linda, in the full radiance of her
beauty. At her shoulder was Vance. Nicholas
Melledge, sitting at the back, saw Dora, and
rose. Vance jumped up and came toward her,
with eager, reproachful greeting; but Dora, em-
barrassed and disappointed by the presence of
the others, half frightened in face of the great
house crowded to the roof, knew sadly that her
response was cold and awkward. Then the
lights went out, and the play began.

Dora was instantly absorbed by it, by the
wonder of hearing the lines that she knew so
well, thrown out by the great sounding-board of

340

A WINGED VICTORY

the stage to the hundreds of men and women in
the shadowy stillness below and above. The
scene was what she looked for, the interior of a
workingman's home; and the theme was the
simple account of his struggle for life. The act
progressed as she remembered it — the wrongs of
the people, their sufferings, their patient en-
durance — ^then the revolt. Yet as she listened
she was conscious of something wanting. Here
a speech lacked its ending; there a bit of char-
acterisation missed fire. The effect was some-
how blurred.

" Yes,'' said Vance, in the pause after the first
act, " we've had to cut it a lot at the beginning.
I fought for every line, but we had to make room
for what comes later. And as it is, there is too
much talk. It sounds didactic, and it drags. The
people don't care much for it. You'll see a dif-
ference, though, in the next act."

The second act was a collection of features
from modem life — ^a labour meeting, a riot, a
fire, a fire-engine and hose in action, a patrol-
waggon and numerous arrests — ^but as Dora fol-
lowed the kaleidoscope, she felt the vacancy of it
all. The point to be made was that the employers
burned their own property: she felt sure that
all that the audience could catch was the bril-
liant effect of the confiagration.

Between the acts Vance was busy explaining
to Linda the mechanism of the hose which played
on the mob, a tfew feature in the play. Nicholas
Melledge tried to talk to Dora, but he found her
frozen dumb.

341 ^

A WINGED VICTORY

The third act was the raison-d^etre of the
pieca Here^ if anywhere, the idea should have
emerged, but it remained unborn* The actor who
played the part of the strike leader had a pleas-
ant vein of comedy, and gave the great denun-
ciation speech, or what was left of it, in a way
to win all hearts. The man whom he caricatured
had just been sent to jail for contempt of court
— ^a fact which added piquancy to the role. The
audience rose to the bait^ and shouted its ap-
proval.

As the curtain went down, there were cries
of "Author,'^ "Sterling^' — and Vance rose in
his place and bowed. " Speech, speech ! "
shouted the crowd.

" Speech, speech,^' echoed Linda, looking up
at Vance, and clapping her gloved hands before
his eyes.

Vance smiled and turned to leave the box, but
Dora caught his arm.

" DonH go, Vance,'* she said, rigidly. " Please,
please don't go.''

Vance was startled by the wide, sorrowful
eyes that she turned to him.

"Why not, Dora?" he demanded, sharply.
"The people are calling for me. Are you
crazy? ".

"You know, — ^you know why," she moaned.
" Don't go."

" You silly child," exclaimed Linda, " of course
he must go. A hundred people at least have
promised me not to stop clapping until he gfpeaks.
I spent the whole morning telephoning them.

342

A WINGED VICTORY

You haven't forgotten your lines^ have you,
Vance? ''

" No, no," he exclaimed, impatiently. " Let me
go, Dora/'

The three were standing now at the back of
the box, out of sight of the cheering house. Dora
had placed her hand instinctively on the door,
but at Vance's words she dropped her arm.
Melledge, surveying them with a bored air,
murmured :

" Better cut it out, old man, if your wife dis-
trusts your oratory."

*^ Go on," cried Linda. " I want to hear you,
Vance."

"You must not, dear," said Dora, softly.
" They aren't the people for whom you wrote the
play. Think of the speech you made the night
it was begun."

Vance looked irritated and baffled.

" Hurry up," said Linda. " They are getting
tired."

" I can't speak now, after all this row," said
Vance. " I haven't a word in my mind."

He went to the front of the box again, and
bowed. The applause died away.

"You have missed the great opportunity of
your life so far as this city is concerned," said
Linda. "Everybody knows that you spoke in
New York. Do you think they are going to be
put oflP with a nod and a smile? "

"You saw that it wasn't my fault," said
Vance, moodily. "D6ra, I don't see why you
should set yourself to spoil my triumph."

343

A WINGED .VICTORY

"Oh, Vance, Vance, I'm sorry. But you
couldn't accept applause for what they don't un-
derstand. They think you're making fun of the
workingmen."

" Well, I am, in a way. The leaders deserve
a stroke of satire for the colossal folly that they
showed in conducting that strike. You can't
make a hero of an idiot."

Dora was silent. Perhaps, after all, she had
been unfair. Perhaps the last act would save
him.

But the last act completed the obliteration of
the theme. There were soldiers, and the stars
and stripes, and a general on horseback. Just
as he had got his Maxims ready to play on the
mob, there were telegrams from Washington ; he
addressed the strikers from his saddle, and in a
twinkling the industrial rebels had become pa-
triots, and were marching off arm in arm with
the soldiers to save Venezuela from falling under
the British yoke.

There was great cheering at the finish. Linda
insisted again that Vance should speak, and this
time Dora was silent. Vance refused almost
roughly.

" It's all over," he said. " I've nothing to say
— except that it's spoiled for me."

In the corridor Linda brought up people to be
introduced as at a reception. Dora stood behind,
unseeing, unhearing. A group surrounded them
in the lobby, but she was left outside the circle,
with Nicholas Melledge.

As the crowd about them fell away, Vance
came to her.

%44

A WINGED VICTORY

*^ Why don't you brace up and talk to people? '^
he said.
■ " I can% Vance/' she answered, miserably.

Vance looked at her a moment.

" You didn't like it," he said.

" Don't make me say that. It wasn't what I
expected, not the play that you wrote last sum-
mer."

" Yes, it is," insisted Vance. " It is just that
play, freed from non-dramatic ideas. A play is
action."

" But the action must lead somewhere, and in
this play the action leads to a wrong conclusion.
You know you think the troops ought not to have
been sent here."

" But they toere sent here, and I made the best
dramatic use of their being here. And what good
would it do to write a play that nobody would
accept but a few fanatics? Drama must have
an audience as well as actors — ^and patriotism is
a great lesson, too— the greater because most
people accept it. Now that I have my audience
I can do what I please with it. I wanted to
explain all this to you beforehand — it is partly
a question of art, partly one of practical morals
— that is, success. One sees these things in a
broader, truer light after working over them for
months."

He spoke incoherently, but Dora could see how
his mind had worked upon itself, in a justifica-
tion the hollowness of which he must feel. But
in this place of tawdry splendours, that empha-
sised the cheapness of the triumph that he had
won, she could not be merciful.

345

A WINGED VICTORY

" It may be broader and truer for most people, ,
but it is falser for you and me," she said.

" I write for most people, then," said Vance,
coldly. " And as for you, you are going out of
your sphere to criticise either my ideas or my art.
Those are mine alone, and I am the sole judge of
them."

"Yes, I know, Vance, but we have lived so
much together — ^you have shared things so with
me that they seem to belong to us in common.
That's why I can't get over it — that you have
changed the play, and changed yourself."

"We won't discuss that," Vance responded.
" You have spoiled my pleasure in it, my triumph
in it. That's enough. You'd better put on your
wraps. We're going to supper in a moment."

" I'm afraid I can't, Vance. I have to be back
at midnight."

Vance ground his teeth.

" I'll take you home then."

He drew her hand under his arm.

" Where are you going? " asked Linda.

" I'm going to take Dora back," said Vance.
" I'll join you later."

" No, you can't go," cried Linda. " It's late
now, and everybody will be disappointed."

" Yes, you must stay, Vance," said Dora. " I
can go home alone quite well. I'm sorry, Linda,
that I can't stay. Good-night."

She walked out bravely on Vance's arm. Out-
side she looked again at his face, but it was like
cut marble, over which the flickering, flaring
light of the street moved without changing it.

346

A WINGED VICTORY

Dora had never seen him so still. He called a
cab, gave the address, and paid the driver. She
thanked him, trying to speak naturally.

" I go out usually at four," she said. " Will
you come then? "

" Certainly,'^ he answered.

Then she blotted herself into a comer of the
carriage, and cried.

She cried not for herself — for him. All the way
home she saw steadily that scene in the theatre
lobby : the women in their flower-like toilets and
gorgeous white cloaks, the men in decorous black
and white, the golden Linda in the midst, an
incarnation of the world that had tempted him.
She remembered that she too had felt that
temptation, the insidious harmony of luxury.
She knew how Vance's nerves rang tb its music.
What wonder that her harsh interruption had set
them jangling, had made him wild with the pain
of discord. She had been very dull not to see
that his boyish pleasure in his first success was
a sacred thing. And she had spoiled it. He had
feared that she would. He had wished to talk
the play over with her beforehand. He had tried
to see her, to prepare her. How mistaken of her
not to let him! So she had wronged him. It
was a comfort to think that she must ask his
forgiveness. It was even a comfort to think that
she could so spoil his triumph. There she
stopped. Her ride was over. She would not
think more that night.

She rose at dawn, and all day she prepared for

347

A WINGED VICTORY

his coming. They would talk of the play, quietly
as married people, — and she thought how she
should make her yiew clear to him^ how gently
she would listen to his defence,

Vance was late, and she waited, watching the
precious moments ebb away. At last he came
and she went to meet him. His first glance at her
grey bonnet and cloak was a thrust.

**Do you always have to wear them?" he
asked.

** Yes. It is the rule, Vance. Our uniform is
a great protection to us, you see. And they^re all
I have for out-of-doors.'^

They went to walk in the little park opposite
the hospital. The spring was in the air, and the
meagre trees were taking on their hopeful green,
but for Dora there was only the chill of return-
ing winter. From the first she saw that her prep-
aration was of no avail. Vance showed a cold
persistence in ignoring the cause of his anger that
made all the subtleties of her affection useless.
He explained his lateness. He had had another
rehearsal, for the fire-engine scene had gone very
badly the night before; the horses had been re-
fractory, and had needed much training. She
tried to enter into his difficulties, but in a mo-
ment he changed the subject

"Linda feels as I do about your staying on
at this hospital. It's absurd, now that I am
making three or four hundred a week, that my
wife should be working as a nurse. She is go-
ing to secure your release at once."

" But that is something that I can't let you

348

A WINGED VICTORY

and Linda settle/' said Dora^ quickly. " It is a
part of my own life. It would be dishonourable
to give it up now. I could not ask it of Dr. Bell.
He has been criticised for giving me the appoint-
ment And it's only a few weeks more, you
know, Vance.''

"Well, those weeks are important. Linda
wants to give us a reception. It's very incon-
venient for me just now to have a wife who can't
be received in society."

Dora took this as a stunning blow between
the eyes. When she could see clearly she looked
up at the ugly, noble face of St. Mark's, as it
rose above the trees. All her gratitude to it,
all her loyalty, flamed up. It had been good to
Peter — ^good to children, such thousands of them,
that were like him.

"I must go back to it," she said, when she
could speak naturally. " It is time."

They turned toward the entrance.

" You seem resolved to stay away from me,"
he went on, after a moment. " You set yourself
against the play from the beginning, and will
see no good in it. And now you are foolishly
obstinate about this hospital matter. You are
not the same woman that I left last autumn. I
don't know you."

Once more Dora was as if struck to the ground.
They were near the steps: she put one hand on
the railing to support herself, and held out the
other.

" Good-night, Vance," she said.

349

CHAPTER V

AS Dora ascended the wide steps it seemed
► to hep as if they continued forever — ^^ the
great world^s altar stairs/' The perfect tragedy
of life had come to her here— on this night that
marked the end of her sowing and the beginning
of her reaping. She had sown seeds of sacrifice,
in ground watered by tears, and now the harvest
was come, and the first fruits thereof were weeds.
And for the moment the future promised nothing
better. It was not that Vance's play was worth-
less, but that he was false; not that they had
quarrelled about a matter of art or ethics, but
that their lives had fallen apart. It was a relief
to her to hear the doors of St Mark's close gra^
ingly behind her — ^to feel that she was shut out
of a world where she had staked all, and lost.

The sense of the terrible repetition of life came
to her once more. This was the second time that
she and Vance had parted in anger. Before, she
had gone out at once to him, and she had bought
him back with the ultimate price — ^herself. Now
she could not go to him; and if she could, she
must go empty handed.

Yet as she lay sleepless and thought the night
through, she knew that she would not give him
up. St. Mark's, which had seemed a refuge,
was now like a prison. So long as she stayed
there she was helpless: they would continue to
move apart miles which she would have to re-

350

A WINGED VICTORY

trace painfully, step by step. It seemed to her
that she could not bear it — ^that she must begin
the journey at once, this night. But her calmer
reason asserted itself. She should stay there
quietly. Vance must come to her there, where,
for his sake, she was.

" He must come back to me,*' she whispered,
again and again. ^^ He told me that he could
not live without me, and it was true — ^truer than
he meant. He will come back.'*

But could she endure it — ^to wait for him?

In the morning she knew that she could not.
Dr. Bell sent for her early, before he made his
inspection. As she entered his office he looked
at her keenly, and her eyes fell before his.

" Dora,^' he said, kindly, " I hear that your
husband has come back. Of course, you want to
go to him? '*

She raised her face with an instant response
that belied her words.

" No. I think it is only honourable for me to
liye up to my contract. It was understood that
I should stay until July."

^^It's no matter about the understanding.
You must go if it's better that you should."

A quick suspicion came into her mind.

"I beg your pardon. Dr. Bell, but has my
sister, or my aunt, Mrs. Henderson, asked for my
release? "

" Certainly not," said the doctor. " I should
not have admitted such a request."

" But I like my work," said Dora, faintly. " I
feel that I owe so much to St. Mark's. And

351

A WINGED VICTORY

the children — I shall feel treaeherons at leaving
them/'

^^ You need not be anxious." His eyes gleamed
a little sardonically. ^^The institution will go
on without you, and there are a score of appli-
cants for your place. And your duty is to other
children, Dora.''

He was very kind. Perhaps he was right. She
shook hands and thanked him. Then she has-
tened from the ofBce with a great throb of thanks-
giving, to telephone to her husband to come to
take her away.

Vance came that same morning.

" I feel as if I were here to take you out of the
penitentiary," he said. " I am glad you got rid
of your convict's dress before I arrived. It was
a mistake, wasn't it — ^this nursing? For you
won't have to go on with medicine now."

"Yes. I feel that it was wrong," assented
Dora, with a sorrowful intention which he did
not notice.

This was the first step in their reuniting, but
the next was harder. For a time Dora found
herself at a standstill. Progress was utterly
denied by the barrier which Vance had raised
against her, to cut her off from him, not only in
thought and feeling, but in material concerns,
as well. Where formerly they had worked and
planned together, now Dora found every detail
settled in advance: her only part was acquies-
cence. Vance took her first to a fashionable
family hotel not far from the Melledges'. A few

352

A WINGED VICTORY

days later he announced that he had taken for
the summer a villa at one of the Wisconsin lake
resorts, whither they accordingly moved.

The house was a pleasant little box for three
servants, a half mile from the Melledges' more
pretentious establishment Vance defended his
choice of it on the ground that he had to do his
new play in the summer, and that he needed to
be among people. How much the house cost,
Dora did not guess, until one day Linda re-
marked that they were lucky to have secured it,
through her good offices, for a thousand dollars.

" A thousand ! " exclaimed Dora, in horror.

" It^s not too much for a man with your hus-
band's income," returned Linda. " He tells me
that he makes fifteen thousand a year."

That the house was expensive to run Dora
knew, because she often spent more than the
weekly allowance which Vance, on Linda's ad-
vice, had determined. He wished to see a good
deal of people in the rather fashionable colony,
to dine out, and to give dinners as good as he got.
Where Dora had formerly studied hygienic foods
for the poor, calculating the proteids and carbo-
hydrates in rice and lentils, now she occupied
herself with making economical deductions from
the Waldorf-Astoria Cook Book, and learning
to mix such cocktails that no one would notice
that the champagne did not come from the
Veuve Clicquot's. What Vance's income really
was she had no idea, and the worst of it was that
it seemed indelicate to ask. She knew that his
royalties were paid irregularly, for her allow-

353

A WINGED VICTORY

ance came by fits and starts. One day, at
luncheon, when she had spoken of the importance
of paying the servants promptly, Vance rose
brusquely, went to his desk, and tossed her a
check-book.

" There ! " he said. " You can draw checks
from that for what you need. I try to keep
within our weekly income, but I see that it^s no
use. You'd better get some clothes for yourself
out of it, too. Linda tells me that you need
some."

"We mustn't touch money that you have
saved, Vance,'' said Dora. "We may need it
next year if * The Strike ' draws less, or if your
other play doesn't go as well."

" You needn't be afraid of ' The Strike,' " said
Vance, loftily, " and it's too early to discount the
failure of the new play."

The check-book lay on the table for a while.
Dora knew that Vance wished her to look at the
amount which it represented, but she could not
bring herself to do it naturally. After a time
he took it again and locked it up.

In spite of Vance's words Dora feared that his
new play was going badly. When she tried to
suggest that he show his work to her he looked at
her coldly.

"You don't believe in me any more as an
artist," he declared.

" I do, Vance," she pleaded.

" You told me once that I was false," he re-
marked. " I can't forget that"

Formerly he had wanted her near him while

354

A WINGED VICTORY

he worked ; now he was irritated if by chance she
was obliged to interrupt him. He worked in
seclusion at the top of the house, and she
promptly made his quiet comfort the first law
of the family. One morning Linda drove up
in her dog-cart and called to Dora on the
veranda.

" Whereas Vance? "

Dora hastened down to dheck the too vibrant
tones of her sister's voice.

" Hush/' she said. " He's at work."

" Oh, all right, I'll go up," said Linda, climb-
ing out of the carriage.

" He hates to be interrupted," protested Dora.

" Nonsense. It does him good. Don't bother.
I know where his den is." .

Dora heard, from the open windows above,
their voices in talk and laughter; and a little
later they went oflf together in the dog-cart.

Vance was subject to frequent interruptions
of this kind. Linda had many social uses for
a man, and her husband was in the city from
Monday morning until Saturday night. Then
the colony demanded a masque for the midsum-
mer revels, and this, with rehearsals, took a
month of his time. The performance was given
on the lawn behind Linda's villa, and was very
clever in its satire, very charming with its
brilliancy of colour and song. Dora tried to be
proud of it, and to tell Vance so. She loyally
remembered all the fine phrases that she heard
about it to repeat to him on the drive home. He
listened indifferently; and she realised that he

355

A WINGED VICTORY

had no use for her garnering. There were plenty
of women to say these things to him directly.

That night Dora realised how little progress
she was making, and the reason for it. It was
because she was not really interested in the life
that they were leading, the things that they did,
as she had been in the old days ; and her sympa-
thy somehow rang hollow. She was making an
honest effort to come near to Vance, but it was —
she confessed it — always a bit maladroit. He
tried to make it plain that he did not need her —
and to be always bearing superfluous gifts made
her self-conscious and awkward. " If only I were
clever, or if I didn't care," she thought, " how
easy it would be.'*

In her concentration on her purpose of win-
ning Vance, of re-establishing their life together,
she forgot to accuse him. She recognised that
his attitude toward her was a pose, consciously
assumed, and maintained at times with difficulty.
She remembered that after their first acquaint-
ance he had gone away for a year, refusing, as
he had said, to come back until he had done
something to make himself worth while. The
need of dramatising his life had impelled and
sustained him then : the same need was stronger
now. And now he was helped to play his part
by the impulse of his grievance against her, the
support of a company of flattering women, and
all the stage setting and properties of a new and
glaring success. It was the world, the world
which once they had dreamed of conquering for
humanity, which had taken him captive. He was

356

A WINGED VICTORY

but another of the knights who had forgotten
his quest under the spell of its enchantment.
Dora knew the taste for luxury that lay deep in
his nature, the morbid sensuality that hungered
there. But his old heart, his old conscience, were
not dead — she could not believe that. She must
win him back to the life of service, and restore
him^to the high uses for which she had seen him
set apart.

She knew him so well, she saw his mind so
clearly, that her comprehension left no room for
anger. Instead, she felt a great pity, as for a
wayward child. The wine that he drank, the
women that he followed, the songs that he made,
the success that he won, all went to his head and
made him drunk. But there was only one pos-
sible end, and Dora realised that this would
come in a crisis of some sort. Vance was too
much of an actor to yield gradually. One day
something would happen ; he would awaken ; and
then he would find her watching. That awaken-
ing might be separated from their present by
years or by worlds. It would not matter. He
might flee upon the wings of the morning, and
hide even in the uttermost parts of the earth;
he could not separate himself from her love,
strong to pursue.

Yet she continued to practise little wiles to take
him, if it might be, unaware — ^pitiful devices for
which she scorned herself. The game of bridge
had lately appeared in the West. Linda was an
enthusiast, and whenever they went to her house
they had to play. Dora realised that for them to

357

A WINGED VICTORY

play comfortably they must win sometimes, and
she devoted herself to learning the rules. Vance
was poor at games, and always lost. One day
Dora suggested that she teach him how to play ;
and for a few days they sat down regularly after
luncheon over the cards. But Vance grew im-
patient.

" I^d rather lose,'' he said, at last, " than fill
my head with all that nonsense about leads and
second hands. 1^11 let you recoup my losses."

But as Vance and Dora generally played to-
gether at Linda's parties, Vance's check-book
was frequently in requisition.

As the summer drew to an end Vance talked
of spending the winter in New York, in Washing-
ton, in the South. One day, however, he returned
from the city with the remark that Linda had
found for them just the apartment that they
needed.

" I said that you would go up to-morrow, Dora,
and see it, and if it is all right, we ought to take
it at once,'' he added.

Dora saw it, admitted its perfection, but pro-
tested at the price. Vance overruled her.

" * The Strike ' is going on again in New York,
and then it will move to Philadelphia and
Boston. It's good for another year at least, and
by New Year's the new one will be ready. If
we're going to play the game we've got to keep
in the ring. I think we'll take the place."

" We haven't a piece of furniture, you know,
Vance, and if you are doubtful about where we
shall live in the future it doesn't seem worth
while to buy a whole outfit"

A WINGED VICTORY

"We shall always keep a home in Chicago/'
rejoined Vance. " My material is here, and here
I am always sure of my audience. We shall
make a descent on New York from time to time,
but Chicago will be our base."

Furnishing the apartment kept Dora busy for
a few weeks. Sometimes Vance accompanied
her on her expeditipns, but usually not. He was
using the comparative leisure of the end of the
country season to finish his play, and Linda had
not yet gone up to town.

The apartment was on the North Side, near
the Melledges and their new friends. In a few
weeks they had taken up completely the threads
of their life of the summer, the little round of
dinners, the receptions and teas, the evenings
at bridge. Dora wondered still why she did
not succeed better among the people whom they
met. " I used to be rather popular at college,"
she. thought " It must have been Constance,
though. By myself I can't get on."

She could never forget that she was invited
hither and thither, not for herself, but as Vance
Sterling's wife, and this reflection paralysed her
efforts. Vance did not help her. He was too
unpractised socially to support her with one
hand while he prosecuted his own objects with
the other, and as he became more and more
absorbed in the latter, Dora had more and more
to imake the best of her isolation.

Her chief social asset in these days was
Nicholas Melledge. She had always liked Nick,
from the day on which he had so gallantly rescued
Constance ^nd herself from their emban!a»ar

359

A WINGED VICTORY

ment at Bennet's. Now she was sincerely grate-
ful to him for his efforts in her behalf. He was
growing rather fat, and rather dull. His talk
was persistently of his real estate deals and
his golf scores. In spite of her good will, Dora
would feel her face taking on a glazed expres-
sion when he told her anew how he had sold
land at four hundred dollars a front foot to the
new university, or how he had made the terrible
third hole at Ben Lomond in three, by a won-
derful approach over tall trees. But she was
sincerely grateful to him for boring her a little
ostentatiously. He was technically a gentleman,
and he knew that his lead was to minimise the
social effect of his wife's caprice for another man
by limiting the isolation of the other man's wife.
But besides this he had genuine good nature,
and Dora liked him for it.

One evening in January Dora had finished
dining alone, and was preparing to plunge into
the household accounts, when Nicholas was an-
nounced and entered.

" Hello," he said. " I just ran over to make
a little call. I thought I might find Linda here."

At Dora's invitation he sat down, without
removing his Inverness, under which she caught
the white gleam of his shirt. A moment later he
stood up.

" Now, wouldn't you like to go to the Charity
Ball to-night? It's the biggest show we have
here, you know. You ought to see it just once."

Dora certainly did not wish to go ; still, Nich-
olas insisted. It was a great show, and they did

360

A WINGED VICTORY

a lot of good with the money. He always took
a box — ^though he hadn't really intended to go, *
until just now the fancy seized him. She must
come and be a good fellow. Dora remembered
that Nicholas had been a good fellow himself
on various occasions, and she could not refuse.
She went to dress. There was a carriage at the
door, and in ten minutes they were in front of the
Auditorium.

" I suppose you don't care to dance," said
Nicholas, as she joined him after leaving her
wraps. He led her to an unoccupied box from
which they surveyed the throng below, Melledge
occasionally recognising an acquaintance or
pointing out a notable figure.

Suddenly Dora caught sight of Linda and
Vance, in the circling promenade. It did not
surprise her to see them there, and for a moment
she gazed at them with fascinated approval.
Vance's slender figure detached itself in strong
lines against the brilliant decorations of the
walls. Linda was superb with her ravishing
colour under the golden glow of her hair. , Dora
looked at Nicholas to call his attention to them,
but his eyes were already in pursuit He did not
speak, except, after a moment, to suggest that
they take a turn about the floor before the
quadrille.

" I really should prefer to stay here," she re-
plied. "You can leave me if you like to go
down."

But Nicholas insisted again, and Dora obedi-
ently rose. As they crossed the floor, straight

361

A WINGED VICTORY

toward the spot where she had seen Vance and
Linda, it occurred to her that her own invol-
untary presence had some relation to theirs.
Nicholas had brought her there with a purpose.
She read it in his congested face, his short,
gasping breathing, the trembling of his arm
that pressed hers tightly against his side. He
was very angry. And Nicholas was an ea^-
going, world-wise man — ^not a fool. This was
the crisis then, that she had waited for — and
Dora knew that she had no strength for it;
she felt utterly sick with the horror of it

It passed very lightly. In a moment the four
were face to face. Linda started and her colour
flew higher. Vance gave a wry smile. Nicholas
breathed heavily, but controlled his voice to a
constrained drawl.

" Hello," he said. " We thought you two were
trying to give us the slip, and concluded to come
along. Great show, isn't it?"

He turned aside to speak to Vance for a mo-
ment, and Linda gave Dora the full flame of her
eyes.

"You fool, Dora Sterling," she whispered.
" Why couldn't you keep that old beast of mine
away? You might have fed him, amused him,
fondled him — ^anything to keep him quiet He's
furious because I told him I was only going to
your house."

For the moment Linda's egotism blinded her
to every considerajtion beyond her momentary
discomfiture, but the look in Dora's eyes gave
her pause.

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A WINGED VICTORY

** It isn't my fault," she added. " I got Vance
only because Nick absolutely refused to bring
me himself.''

Dora made no reply to this, for Nicholas had
turned back to them. There were a few com-
monplaces, a vague remark about meeting later
in the evening. Then Nicholas gave his arm to
Linda, and they moved oflF, slowly, together.
Vance stood for a moment in icy detachment,
following them with his eyes.

" I hope that you are proud of yourself," he
remarked, "conspiring with Melledge to spy
upon me and your sister."

Mechanically Dora defended herself.

"I hadn't the remotest idea that you were
here, Vance. I came only because Nick urged
me."

She had been almost ill. She was conscious
now only of an immense weariness.

" He seems to have played you a neat trick,"
continued Vance. " Shall I take you to his box
to wait for him to come back to get you? "

Dora took his arm, and in silence they crossed
the floor. At the other side she left him.

" Thank you," she said, " I can find the box
myself. Don't bother about me any more."

She mounted the staircase leading to the boxes.
She would not wait for Melledge, but she thought
that she might rest for a moment before going
home. The theatre was suddenly in darkness,
except for the great bar of light thrown on the
costume quadrille in the centre of the floor. She
stumbled on for a few steps. A box near her

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A WINGED VICTORY

seemed empty; she thought it was the one to
which Nicholas had taken her, and she entered
it Then she made out, in the dim light, the
figure of a man sitting at the front, his head
bowed on his arms, which rested on the jyarapet
He turned at her step.

" I beg your pardon," she said, drawing back.
** I have made a mistake."

In a second Leverett was beside her. His
hands were upon hers. She heard him call her
Dora, with a tenderness that carried the word far
back into the secret place of her unconscious
memories. Then she was mortally cold, as if
a wind had blown over her, and she had to lean
against the pillar and close her eyes.

When she opened them Leverett was standing
just above her, very near, his eyes in hers.

*^ What is it, Dora? " he said. " Your hands
are dead cold. Did I frighten you, rising up this
way like a ghost? "

" I am so glad — so very glad, Leverett, that I
don't dare to speak about it," she replied. " At
the moment when I thought I had nothing ! *'

She spoke rapidly, brokenly, hardly conscious
of herself. Leverett seized her hands and almost
roughly drew her to a chair.

*^Do you know what you are saying, Dora?
And do you mean it? Ah, you do know, and you
do mean it. I see it in your eyes, and they have
never lied. You married Vance Sterling because
you thought he needed you most. You were
wrong. You could not know that I needed you
more than anyone else on earth ever needed you."

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A WINGED VICTORY

He was leaning over her again, his words and
his attitude kept for her alone by the double
curtain of music and darkness. Now the
orchestra ceased, and the light flashed about
them. Leverett threw himself back in his chair,
and gazed at her in a silence of hope and fear.
Fear had the first word, and hope died.

"Forgive me, Leverett," she said. "I don't
know what I was saying. It was wonderful to
see you there, to hear your voice, to know that
you are always my friend, my perfect friend.
But I must go. My sister and her husband are
here. I must go to them at once."

She rose, and he sprang to her side as she
moved away.

" You are suffering. You call me your friend,
and yet you do not let me help you."

" You can^t, Leverett. When you can — ^if you
can — I will let you know."

"But I shall see you, Dora? I have come
back because I thought I could trust myself.
And Sterling — he and I used to be friends.
Surely I may come to you? "

She looked back over her shoulder.

" Yes, yes, of course, Leverett. Vance will be
very glad that you have come back. You used
to be almost his only friend. You must come to
see us — ^but I will write to you first. Don't come
with me any farther. I shall find my sister in
a moment. God be good to you, Leverett —
and to me."

366

CHAPTER yi

DORA went away not in the least knowing
what she shonld do. She had told Leyer-
ett that she was going to her sister, and she
walked mechanically toward the Mellcdges' box.
Linda was there with several people. Dora felt
that she could not join them. She turned back.
As she passed Leverett's box she noticed that
it was empty; and a moment later, as she came
out of the dressing-room, she saw him just ahead
of her on the stairs. It seemed inevitable that
they should meet again, and without her willing
it. But she knew that they must not. She drew
back into the dressing-room, and lingered a
moment. Then she went out quickly, and lost
herself in the darkness.

Since she had no money, she had to walk
home. It was late. There were few passers-by,
and only here and there a lighted window broke
the dark surface of the night Snow was falling :
the streets were white beside the black, wind-
bitten lake. Now that she was alone in this
darkened, deadened world, where even her foot-
prints disappeared behind her, she would think
of Leverett a little. Once released from the
presence of that which was stronger than she,
whose coming had mastered her, she would recall
a little of the joy that she had put from her.
That Leverett had come back to her, that he
still loved her, gave her something that she

366

A WINGED VICTORY

needed for life, and she took it Whatever was
lost, there was this of good still left to her. The
lines kept singing themselves in her mind :

"One friend in that path shall be^
To secure my step from wrong;
One to count night day for me.
Patient through the watches long,
Serving most with none to see."

As she let herself into the apartment it was
a half hour after midnight The telephone bell
was ringing with a persistence which suggested
long-continued reiteration. She hastened to an-
swer. It was Melledge's voice.

"By Jove, Dora, I^m glad to hear you," he
said. " I saw Vance alone, and I didn't know
what had become of you. I am very sorry. I
thought, of course, that you were with him."

" No. I came home. I was tired."

There were more apologies from Melledge.

"It doesn't at all matter," she answered.
" Neither you nor Yance is in the least to blame."

Dora awoke the next morning with the fact in
the foreground of her mind that she must write
to Leverett And it seemed no longer a sim-
ple thing to do, but an almost impossible task.
Should she tell him all, or a part, or nothing
— ^merely ask him to trust her, and leave her?
She tried to remember what she had said to
him the night before. In the light of that, he
could not refuse to understand why she must
not see him again. But it was hard to say, and
she hesitated over the beginning. She was sitting

367

A WINGED VICTORY

at her desk, with a blank sheet before her, when
the maid opened the door for Mrs. Melledge.

Linda was not her usual complacent self that
morning. She was fagged from the ball — ex-
cited, and feverish.

" Is Vance here? ^ she asked.

"He hasn't come out of his room yet," said
Dora. " I think he is still sleeping, but I will
go to see."

" No, don't disturb him. It was only a mes-
sage. I can give it to you."

"You might write him a note," said Dora,
pointing to the desk from which she had risen.

Linda sat down, and her eyes fell on the sheet
of paper before her, blank, except for the words,
"Dear Leverett."

She looked up quickly.

" Oh, ho, that's it, is it? You know that Lever-
ett is back? His father is ill, I hear, and sent
for him to take charge of things. People said
that he was at the ball last night, but I didn't
see him. Perhaps that's why you left so mys-
teriously, and were so long getting home?
Perhaps — tell me, Dora, did you work old Nick
to take you there — artful pussy? If you did,
I take back what I said last night— and I'll
never call you stupid again."

"You are utterly wrong, Linda," returned
Dora. "I went last night because Nick per-
suaded me to. I did not guess why. I met Lev-
erett quite by accident, and I came home alone."

Linda looked at her a moment with specula-
tive eyes. Then she rose impatiently,
k 368

A WINGED VICTORY

" I can't write what I want to say to Vance,
and I don't want to see him. I'll just give you the
message. He was coming to take me sleighing
out to the Lakeside Club for tea. You must tell
him not to come — ^this afternoon, or any time —
that I can't see him again. Nick is in a rage
about it — some gossip got to him at the club,
and set him off last night, and then I hadn't
told him that I was going there — ^had told him
something else^ in fact — ^and Vance was per-
fectly impossible. He simply can't handle him-
self — ^that boy. And now he must realise that
it's all over. I know old Nick like a book, and
just how far I can go, and when to stop. This
is where I get off. I tried to make Vance see
that last night, but he wasn't quite himself. You
must help me out of it, Dode."

Linda was drawing on her gloves, and did
not look up. Dora studied her closely. She
had not been used to read motives, but the last
months had given her some acuteness. She
knew that this was Linda's way of explaining,
of declaring a truce, of returning to her the
spoils of war — not real war after all, merely
the petty social game. And it was too late.
That Linda's episode had been mere comedy,
a sub-plot in the drama, was nothing to Dora,
now that she had once found herself in the
presence of the Nemesis which held her and
Vance and Leverett bound in their lives to
tragic ends. But her anger was fierce against
her sister, against the careless interloper, the
light-minded accomplice of fate.

369

A WINGED VICTORY

" I will give Vance your message/' she said,
quietly, "though it is the very insolence of
selfishness to ask me. I will do it for his sake,
not for yours, Linda. You are the only enemy
I have ever had : the only person I ever wanted to
hate. You can't understand what you have done.
You are too stupidly selfish. You are just that,
Linda, absolute, black selfishness. You are not
a human being : just a monstrous shadow on the
wall. I don't believe that you ever did one
generous thing in your life — not to our mother,
or our father, or our brother — ^not to Aunt Bella
or your husband. You are too selfish even to
be sinful."

For the moment Linda was speechless, her
handsome mouth hanging loose, her hand trem-
bling, her marble beauty suddenly turned to
paste, and crumbling. But as she pulled her
furs about her she recovered herself, and tried
to speak lightly.

" You certainly are a fanatic, Dora. You
seem to be angry because I have got tired of
your husband. That's wifely devotion for you.
Good-bye. I shan't be a shadow on your wall, at
any rate."

After Linda had gone Dora again took up her
letter to Leverett, but it was harder than before.
" How can I be kind to him, and fair to him —
and send him away? " she murmured. Suddenly
there came to her the verses of the night before,
and she wrote them down quickly as she remem-
bered them. She added :

" These lines were in my mind as 1 walked

370

A WINGED VICTORY

home last night. You know what they mean,
and yon can understand, if you will, why I
cannot see you again. Later it may be — not
now. Please understand, and do not come.''

She had directed the envelope and was folding
the letter, when the outer door of the apartment
opened with the key and Vance came in. It
was still snowing. His hat and overcoat were
powdered white, and as he took them oflF, his
evening clothes appeared rumpled with all-night
wear.

Dora started up in astonishment

"You are ill, Vance," she exclaimed, seeing
his cheeks bright with fever, and his hands
which trembled as he tried to hang up his coat.
^^ Have you had your breakfast? Shall I ring? "

" Please. A little brandy. I have a chill, but
it will pass in an instant."

" I thought that you were in your room," Dora
continued, as he emptied the glass. "I told
Linda so. She has just gone. Didn't you meet
her? "

Vance stood looking at her, not with the cold
indifference that he had assumed of late, but
with a sort of violent intentness.

" I passed her getting into her carriage," he
said.

" But didn't she stop? Because she said she
had a message for you. She can't go to the
Lakeside Club sleighing with you this after-
noon."

" Oh, is that all? I'd forgotten about it"

Dora thought a moment She had been right

371

A WINGED VICTOET

in her interpretation of Linda's motive that
morning; but she had not gone far enough.
That detestable little scene had been calculated
that Linda might cut the cord that she felt was
ready to break in her hand.

^' Noy'' she saidy after a {Miuse. ^^ It isn't all.
Linda thinks that you had better not come to
see her again, for a while. Nicholas is irritated
because she went to the Charily Ball with you
last night."

" H'm/' said Vance. " Well, I'm sorry to have
stirred up a storm in Nick's domestic waters.
But it's iMirtly your fault, Dora. Do you re-
member that you set me a task once? — ^to conquer
six people who saw me make a fool of myself?
Linda was the last, and the hardest. And when
the chance came I couldn't resist it."

Dora shuddered. She had felt anger at the
hollowness and triviality of Linda's part; but
that Vance should strut and prance, and strike
his attitude in the very presence of their fate
— ^this was unendurable. She remembered say-
ing those words to him. Very likely they had
given him his original cue. Then once more his
instinct for dramatising his life had betrayed
him. He seemed to realise it as he stood there>
so white and shaken, so pitiful with his as-
sumed bravado. His next words were doubtfully
spoken.

" What do you think of Linda? "

^^I think Linda is the world," said Dora,
slowly, " and that she tempted you."

^^ She didn't accuse me of tempting her to go

372

A WINGED VICTORY

to the Charity Ball last night, did she?*' he
askedy with affected lightness. Then, with sad-
den intensity : " Was it true that Nick got you
to go with him? '*

^^ It's true, Vance, that he urged me to go, but,
as I said last night, I didn't have the least idea
of meeting you and Linda."

"Nor the least idea of meeting anyone else,
I suppose."

" No. But I saw Leverett Raymond there."

"Yes," exclaimed Vance, his composure sud-
denly breaking up. " I saw you. You were in
the box with him. You went out with him —
just behind him. That was why I didn't come
home. I was afraid — ^my God ! just afraid ^"

Dora drew a deep breath. The long tension
between them was over. The crisis had come.
It was time, and she was glad that she could
meet it. She had been standing by her desk.
Now she walked steadily to Vance as he leaned
against the door.

" I will tell you anything, Vance, if you ask
me honestly, but you have no right even to speak
to me while your mind is full of such poisonous
things."

" I am not complaining," said Vance, after a
moment "I have no right to complain — ^but
tell me this, Dora. You didn't go there to meet
Raymond? "

" Certainly not."

Vance flung himself on the sofa and buried
his face in his arms.

" I see," he groaned. " I did it myself. I

373

A WINGED VICTORY

let you go away. I sent you away — and he was
there."

" Yes," said Dora, " he was there. I did not
know it until, by mistake, I went into his box.
I left him to go back to Linda's, but there were
people with her, and I could not go in without
you. So I came home. I walked — alone."

" What ! You walked, alone? Why did Ray-
mond let you? "

" He didn't know it. I went out after he had
left. And I have written him not to come to
see me."

" Why did you do that? " asked Vance, look-
ing up.

" You ought to know, Vance," said Dora, pa-
tiently. " With things as they are between you
and me I cannot have a friend like Leverett.
While you are cruel to me and seem to hate me I
cannot let him come."

Vance rose and walked up and down the room.
He stopped again in front of her.

"Is that because — ^you love him?" he de-
manded, trying to keep the emotion out of his
voice.

" It is because I love you."

He met her eyes waveringly.

" I can't believe it," he said.

" How can you doubt it, Vance? "

She stretched out her hands, and he bowed his
head upon them.

" You love me," he said, " after all that has
been? After I have disappointed you, and be-
trayed everything you hoped? After I have

374

A WINGED VICTORY

abandoned you, and wasted you life? You may
forgive me, but you cannot love me, Dora."

" I love you, Vance. You are my husband, and
I shall love you while I have the will to love
you. And I have that — ^you cannot doubt it."

He raised his head, still holding her hands.

"No," he answered, "I cannot doubt that
But you love me because you think it is your
duty to — ^because, as you say, you will. Is
that it? "

"Vance, how else could I love you, except
by willing to love you? Isn't that enough, that
I vmnt to love you? that I want you to come
back to me? that I have wished it, and willed it>
and tried for it all these months? "

"Yes," he answered. "It is enough. You
have sought me often, Dora, and very far. Do
you remember, after that trouble at college at
your party, how you came to see me when I was
sick? And again after I made such a blunder
about the book and we quarrelled — ^how you
came again to find me and save me? But I
had forgotten until I saw you with Leverett.
And then I thought it was too late. And still
you love me, and because you love me you do
not love him? Tell me — is it true, Dora? "

He bent toward her. She could not make it
clear to him. She dared not lose them both in
subtleties that were not clear to herself. Her
eyes, that never lied, fell before his, but her will
answered honestly with her lips :

" It is true."

Vance pressed her hands to his face. She felt

375

A WINGED VI€TORY

him tremble, and after a second her arms sup-
ported him. The fever burned again in him.

" You are really ill, Vance," she cried. " Lie
down on the couch."

^^ I am only faint and cold, Dora. I walked
all night— that is, after I left the baU. TU be
all right in a little while."

He staggered to the conchy and lay there, his
eyes closed. As she threw a cover over him she
noticed how thin he was, how the skin seemed
drawn tight over the strained muscles of his
face, and the veins stood out blue in his temples.

After a time he opened his eyes.

"Don't let us talk any more," begged Dora.
" It will all come right."

But his spirit of morbid casuistry refused to
be quieted.

" There is one thing more, Dora. Could yon
ever have loved Leverett? "

She had answered that question once, long
ago. She could not unsay what she had said.

"What use is it to ask such things, Vance?
Suppose I could? What then?"

" Then why — how could you "

" Listen, Vance," she said. " I did not know
what love was until I loved you. And I still
know what love is through my love of you. And
because I love you — I know that I could love
him."

Vance moved restlessly under his coverlet.

" Does he love you, Dora? "

Once more her eyes fell from his.

" Yes," she said.

376

A WINGED VICTORY

" How do you know that? "

« He told me."

Vance sat up, throwing the rug from him.

"When? Was it last night? '»

" It was long ago. The day we left his house
to go to Qlenwood."

Vance sank back.

" Did he tell you that day? " he mused. ** And
was it only then that you knew? "

It was Dora's turn to start Here again was
the secret that she kept Hidden among the mem-
ories of her girlhood.

" Did you, Vance? Tell me, did you know? *^

His eyelids closed heavily.

'' No," he said. " I did not."

After a pause he inquired : " Shall you send
that letter to Leverett now? "

"No," she answered. "There is no reason
why he should not come to us. Ton shall see him,
Vance, and bring him back as your friend."

377

CHAPTER VII

ON this morning Dora took up the refashion-
ing of their life. There had been a sad
waste of its material. Vance had lived himself
out in the past year. He had consumed the store
of nervous force which was his only possession,
and yet he could not now resign himself to in-
activity for its replenishing. Their financial
situation was again difficult ^^ The Strike '' had
run its year in the large cities, and was now
playing in cheap theatres in the West. With its
royalties as their only income they were falling
behind every week. Vance talked of getting an
appointment as dramatic critic, and meanwhile
filled a miscellaneous column twice a week in
an evening paper ; but his chief hope was in the
new play which he had hurriedly finished in the
autumn, and which Bergmann, rather lukewarm,
was going to have rehearsed sometime.

Dora read this play, and frowned upon it. It
was a comedy of American morals, without either
piquancy or force. But Vance had in hand the
outline for another drama, " The Vision,^* over
which she exulted. It was an idealised treatment
of the world-struggle opposed to the realistic
sketch in "The Strike." Dora begged him to
take it up at once.

" Telegraph Bergmann that you withdraw the
other, and will send him a better play in time
for the spring," she urged.

378

A WINGED VICTORY

Vance took up the play, and after two or
three hours^ work sent the despatch to Berg-
rnann.

Externally their life went on much as before.
It is true, with the people among whom they had
chiefly lived, their break with Linda made an
instant difference. It was immediately known
that the Melledges and the Sterlings could not
be invited together, — ^and the Melledges were too
important to be slighted. The only person, how-
ever, who manifested any particular concern over
the quarrel was Nicholas Melledge. He was too
kind and too social to accept a feud, even though
it had been originally of his making. He came
to see Dora, and lamented to her that Linda put
so much passion into her virtuous renunciation.
And Dora was sorry for him.

But if Vance could live without the Melledges,
he felt keenly the social neglect into which he
fell. It was a note of failure, and he heard it
with a misgiving that was almost tragic. To
encourage him, Dora tried to keep up with the
life that was passing by them, little as her heart
was in it. When he should be better he would
demand distraction and society, and to have this
at command Dora did what she had been unable
to do in the sunshine of their prosperity— she
made herself independently interesting and at-
tractive to people. She neglected no duties or
opportunities: she found herself, indeed, reach-
ing out after new figures to replace the old ones
in their meagre social background.

In this attempt to supply the kind of hu-

379

A WINGED VICTORY

man association which Vance demanded, Dora
thought of Leverett. She had not sent her letter;
she had not replaced it by another. She wished
Vance to bring him back to them as his own
friend. But as time passed, she recognised in
his excuses the endless delay of the nervous in-
valid, and finally she suggested writing to Lev-
erett herself. Vance was lying on the couch
while Dora copied his article for the next day
on the typewriter. He turned to her with a
look of suffering in his eyes that brought her at
once to his side.

" Do you very much wish to see him, Dora? ^^

"Yes, I do, Vance. He is my oldest friend.
And I must see him, — or write him that I cannot
If I do that, he will go away. If he comes, it
will be as in the old days. He is your friend
as well as mine — and we both need him, Vance."

" You are a very honest person, Dora," he said,
after a moment. " Yes, by all means let us have
him. I will go to see him, tell him that I have
been ill, and could not go before, and ask him to
come to dinner, to-morrow."

Leverett came, ignoring Dora's silence, asking
nothing, meeting them as he found them, with
an acceptance for which Dora was dumbly grate-
ful. She could observe him now at ease, and she
found him changed. His strong features, the
straight lips, the clean-cut, even sweep of jaw
and cheek backward to the ear, had a strength
of repose instead of the old assertiveness. Even
his perpetually troubled forehead, beneath which
his eyes still smouldered as of old, could not do

380

A WINGED VICTORY

away with the effect of patience and forbearing
kindness, and his voice was always gentle.

They dined cheerfully, with much talk of the
past and a little of the future, which was now
ruled by the great light of *^ The Vision/' To
Vance, in the hopeful atmosphere which Dora
and Leverett combined to make about him, it
seemed to promise a far more splendid day than
" The Strike."

^^ Get it out, old man, and read us a bit of it,"
said Leverett, as they sat over their coflfee after
dinner.

Vance went to bring the manuscript, and Lev-
erett turned to Dora. His face grew wistful,
and the old cloudy intentness came into his
eyes.

"Am I doing right, Dora?" he asked, in a
swift undertone. "I don't understand, you
know — what you said the other night, and not
hearing from you for so long — ^but I'm trying
to obey orders literally. That's all I'm good at."

" Yes, Leverett, just right You see that you
must help us — ^help Vance as you can help him.
You must come again "

" They call the other play * The Lucky Strike,'
and say that I can't do it again," said Vance,
from the next room. " And they say it's theatri-
cal journalism and all that — ^but * The Vision ' is
a great play."

This was one of Vance^s good evenings; but
in the weeks before the play was finished he
had crises of disheartenment. It was only by

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A WINGED VICTORY

" Yes, Dora, by all means let us make a trio,"
said Vance, in a muffled tone.

He was sitting hunched up on the couch, his
knees drawn to his chin, looking at them with
strained, tortured eyes.

" Oh, no, indeed,'^ cried Dora, hastily. " You'll
have a much better time by yourselves."

She looked at Leverett again to make sure that
he had understood, and as their eyes met she
knew that Vance was following.

^^ I could not think of leaving the apartment,
you know. It would be absurd," she insisted.

After a time Vance took up the plan with
some interest. He got (mt the atlas, looked up
routes, and talked of getting newspaper corre-
spondence. Leverett urged him on with a sort
of desperation. It seemed as if he realised that
they were in a quicksand, and was pushing
toward the only way out. When he left, their
departure was set for the following week.

A day or two afterwards, however, Vance re-
ceived a telegram from Bergmann summoning
him to New York to interpret " The Vision."

" That knocks out my going with Leverett,'^
he said. " You'd better go on to New York with
me, Dora. I can't go alone."

"But we can't afford that," she objected.
" We have this apartment here, you see, and the
servants."

"We'll close it," said Vance, "and let the
servants go. You must come and see the open-
ing."

He called up Leverett by telephone to inform

384

A WINGED VICTORY

him of his change of plan, and came back with
a troubled face.

" Leverett says we can go to Mexico by way
of Cuba/' he said, "and stay in New York as
long as I like. A few days will be enough. If
I can't make them see *The Vision' then, it
won't be any use to try."

" Oh, then I need not go," said Dora. " Lev-
erett will look out for you. And we really can't
afford to go, both of us."

A few minutes later the telephone bell rang
again, and this time Dora answered. It was Lev-
erett's voice.

" Dora, is it you? Am I right about this going
to New York? Wouldn't you go yourself? "

" You are right, Leverett, and I am very thank-
ful to you. You are always right, and I am al-
ways grateful."

" But am I not to see you for a minute before
we go? I may not come back. I don't see my
way clear any more."

" No, Leverett It wouldn't be any use. It's
better so."

"Is that Leverett?" called Vance, from his
study.

" Yes," said Dora. " Come and speak to him."

The next day Vance and Leverett started for
New York, and once more Dora waited, as she
had done a year before, for news of victory.
Then she had been steadily busy : it was harder
now. After a day or two Vance almost ceased
to write, and it was through Leverett's letters

385

A WINGED VICTORY

that she followed the progress of the play. Vance
was working furiously at it, Leverett wrote,
fighting to have it presented intact. It was al-
ready announced as a sequel to last year's suc-
cess, " The Strike,^' a measure which they all
condemned, but on which Bergmann placed much
stress. The letters were chiefly filled with ac-
counts of rehearsals, and of Vance's health, but
once there was a postscript.

" When the play is out I shall go on to Mex-
ico," he wrote, " and then I don't know — but I'm
not coming back. It is too hard, Dora. I thought
I could trust myself, but I can't. And I feel
that it is somehow hard for you to have me
about — a strain. It's my place to get out."

Dora tried to answer this, but she could not.
She realised that in her blind trust in human
forces she had created a condition which tipB
impossible, but which she was helpless to dis-
solve. She had no right to accept Leverett's ban*
ishment from his place in the world as a meang^
of ending it, and yet she could not demand of
him that he join her in carrying on a situation\
in which she herself had lost faith. If the play
succeeded she and Vance might go away. That
would be best — ^but if it failed?

She sat for an hour over Leverett's letter: it
seemed like an echo of her own discouragement.
Then she pushed it from her and went out to
walk in the grey afternoon, beside the lead-col-
oured lake. It was the passive season, neither
winter nor spring, when the year bears its bur-
den without joy or pain, only heaviness and fa-

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A WINGED VICTORY

tigue. She was lonely. Since Vance had gone
she had lived by herself: a certain weight of
mind and limb had kept her from seeking even
the few people whom she knew. This afternoon
her lassitude gained upon her, and exercise
brought no exhilaration. She sat down on a
bench in the park, and looked out over the dull
waters to the meaningless horizon of the inland
sea. It was as if the grave had closed around
her — in which there is no imagination, neither
triumph nor joy.

A sudden feeling of faintness came over her
— ^a coldness in her hands, a dimness in her eyes,
a clutch of sickness in her throat. She wondered
if she had walked too far; then instantly she
knew what had come to her. In her pity for
Vance, her need to comfort him, her desperate
will to love him and to give herself to him, she had
come into her own. She also should be called
blessed among women.

Far out on the drab water shot a yellow gleam
of light, and a faint breeze stirred the stiff
branches of the tree above her. She rose proudly,
joyously. She was once more winged in her
hope: armed in her faith. In presence of the
great fulfilment of life all individual complica-
tions of mere living seemed contemptible and
petty. She walked firmly, exulting in her
strength.

At home, she went at once to her desk and
wrote:

"You will come back, Leverett Your life
is here: you must not give me the sorrow of

387

A WINGED VICTORY

making you shirk it. I have not altogether un-
derstood. Vance and I have made it hard. Now
forget that we are here, but come back to your
place.'*

She did not write to Vance. She knew that the
promise which was to her the eternal triumph
of life would be to him only an added burden
and terror in a world of struggle and shadow.
She must wait to tell him when he had won his
battle, or at least when he had returned to feel
the contagion of her strength. So she awaited,
with double impatience, the opening of the play.

There was no reply from Leverett, but she ex-
pected none. He would balk at putting his reso-
lution into words. His letters were again only
of Vance and the play. On the evening of the
opening he sent a telegram after each act — and
they were sufficiently hopeful. But at the end
came one from Vance with the classic sentence —
" Badly staged ; badly acted ; badly managed :
Damned." Dora smiled a little through her
tears. It was a bad blow, but Vance was ob-
viously taking it pretty well if he could still
dramatise his own failure, and find consolation in
historical precedents.

The evening of the next day Dora was sitting
alone, knitting with her hands the little jackets
and socks which were to clothe her child, and
weaving in her mind the dreams that were to be
its spiritual garments, when she heard a cab
drive up the quiet street and stop at the door.
She knew that it was Vance — ^and, ah, she hoped,

388

A WINGED VICTORY

not Leverett. But the door opened and they
both entered. Vance came to her as she rose,
and kissed her with cold lips. And as he bent
above her for an instant she noticed that his
eyes, always so steady in his nervous, mobile
face, were no longer still. Leverett stood awk-
wardly at the door, until she held out her hand.

" I shouldn't have come, but Vance insisted,"
he said. "I'm glad he's safe at home. Now,
I'll go."

Vance called : " Stay, Leverett."

Leverett paused near the door, looking curi-
ously at Dora's work-stand, with its pile of
worsted. Vance stood by the mantel, his hat in
his hand and his overcoat on, as if he were go-
ing out again. His face, in spite of its pallor,
was bright with enthusiasm reflected from the
wandering lights in his eyes.

" Yes, stay, Leverett," hie continued. " I made
you come back to Chicago with me for a reason
that concerns you and Dora. I have something
to say to you both — something that I have been
trying to get courage to say ever since you came,
Leverett, — ever since I saw you and Dora to-
gether at the Charity Ball. Don't interrupt me,
Leverett. Dora, please sit down. I walked the
streets all that night, from beyond the tracks to
the lake, trying to get courage to do what I
have found courage to do to-night — the courage
of failure.

" Leverett, you loved Dora when you were a
boy. I knew it, for you told me so. You didn't
mean to, but you told me the day we rode over

389

A WINGED VICTORY

to Glenwood. I knew it, Dora, and I lied to yon
when I said I did not. And, Dora, yon loved
Leverett I knew that, too, though no one told
me, though yon did not know it yourself. I saw
it But I wanted you, Dora, and I made haste.
I won you from Leverett, and from yourself —
from your generous, loving self. I meant to
make you so happy that you would never know.
I meant to conquer the world for you. But my
very love of you was a temptation : it put me at
the mercy of the world that I meant to con-
quer. And when I had gained a little, such a
little success, yon would not have it, Dora. You
threw it back. And I was angry, for I knew that
I had gained but a wretched fragment of the
world, and had lost my own soul. And so I
betrayed you first, and betrayed Leverett, and
then betrayed myself: and I spoiled your life
and laid it waste — ^and Leverett's, too — ^and my
own. I had one more throw, and I have lost.

"But you, Dora and Leverett — ^you can re-
make your life together. You have begun — I
have seen you — in obedience to something that
is stronger than your will. And the only gen-
erous, the only true act of my life will be to
leave you to each other. God bless you, Dora.
Good-bye."

Dora went to him and put her arms about
him.

"Vance," she said, "you are absolutely, ter-
ribly wrong. Now sit down and let us talk
quietly."

390

A WINGED VICTORY

" No," he said. " I haven't time. I can't count
on my nerve for long. Good-bye, Dora."

He kissed her once more; then quickly, as a
runner making ready for his race, he put her
from him. He made a step toward the outer
door, but Leverett instinctively barred his
progress.

" There is another way, then," he murmured,
and glided swiftly through the doorway that
led into the little room that they called his study. .
Leverett threw himself across the room, against
the door closed against him. It held firm. They
heard the key snap in the lock. With a quick
blow of his fist Leverett broke through one of
the panels. Amid the crash of splintered wood
there was the sharp cry of a pistol. Then silence :
not a groan, not a breath.

" Quick, Leverett ! " cried Dora. " Go to him —
you. I dare not It will kill me — ^and my; — ^his
—child ! "

391

CHAPTER VIII

FOB an instant Dora and Leverett stood in
the room where they had been three and
were now two, fronting each other with faces
from which all masks had fallen, in the presence
of love and death — ^love that lay bleeding between
them, and death that had prepared his coming,
hiding in the shadows that hemmed them in, and
made them alone on earth.

Dora spoke again.

" Go to him, Leverett, and come and let me
know. I will telephone to Dr. Bell. He is an
old friend, — ^and near."

A minute later Leverett came to her where she
stood in the hall.

"Vance is dead, Dora," he said, and put out
his arms to support her for a moment, until she
was able to stand alone.

Then the wheels of life, which had been still,
began to whirl again about them in rapid, mean-
ingless revolution. A neighbour from below
rang timidly, and was admitted. Others fol-
lowed. The doctor came, and the inspectors,
and the undertakers, and the reporters.

Leverett would have sent for Linda and Nicho-
las, but Dora bade him not. So he stayed beside
her, watching her, trying to save her the worst
brunt of the shocks that came in rapid suc-
cession. It seemed natural to her that he should
be there, advising and helping her through the

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A WINGED VICTORY

insufferable disorder and havoc of this night of
death.

The first streaks of new light were making
their way like thin, inevitable blades of steel be-
neath the shades into the room, when at last^
for a moment, the world grew quiet again.

Dora came to Leverett. "Take me to see
him," she said. " It is time now."

They went together into the inner room, and
Leverett pushed aside the curtains and let in
the dawn. Vance lay before them with the
same bright, uplifted face that he had worn the
night before — sl face that spoke of high things
—of peace and joy and victory.

"My husband! my husband," Dora mur-
mured, as she bent over him.

" It is my fault," said Leverett, brokenly. " I
should never have come back."

" No," replied Dora, " it was I who made you
come. And after all, Vance was in love with
death. It was the highest truth to him."

They went out again into the large room,
sickly with yellow light.

" Now you must go, Leverett," said Dora.

" Yes, but you will let me come back later in
the day? "

" No, you must not do that."

" But I can't leave you alone. I know what
people will say, but think — ^you have no one else
unless you go to your sister."

" I shall not be alone," said Dora. " I can't
be alone — with life — ^and life is my highest truth,
as death was his."

393

A WINGED VICTORY

Leverett looked at her with wonder. All that
fearful night she had gone and come, quietly,
steadily. Now she stood very tall and bright
before him, a kind of prophetic exaltation in her
eyes, the rhythm of semi-consciousness in her
speech.

" But, Dora," he urged, " there will be so much
to do and so many difSculties for you. For one
thing there is the coroner's inquiry. Forgive
me, but I have to speak of these things. I will
try to arrange it so that you will not be called
to testify, but I am not sure. And you must be
prepared.''

Dora blanched a little.

" Never mind, Leverett Things must take
their course. I shall call on my relatives for
what help I need, and you must leave me. It is
better, Leverett."

The death of Vance Sterling made some stir
in the world. The newspapers recalled the
prophecy of his suicide in his first book of poems,
and the thin, pale grey volume with the romantic
preface, afterwards suppressed, became at once
of importance among bibliophiles. The first edi-
tion of his second collection of verses, which had
hung heavily over the market, was at once taken
up. In New York the failure of " The Vision "
was partly retrieved ; and black-bordered posters
and souvenir programmes drew crowds to the
theatre where it was played.

For a moment local interest fixed itself on the
inquest. The stuffy, gas-lighted little court-

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A WINGED VICTORY

room was crowded to its extremity, many ladies,
members of the half-fashionable set which had
received Vance so warmly, being in attendance.
Linda and Nicholas Melledge came in with Dora,
and their entrance was sympathetically noted.
People remembered Linda's intimacy with Vance,
and the quarrel ; this suicide seemed to put the
seal of high romance on a poet's lawless passion.
Linda was very stately, very calm in her splendid
mourning. Nicholas was decidedly nervous. He
was a timid man socially, and did not see any
advantage in scandals.

The coroner was used to handling these affairs
in as pleasant a fashion as possible. His urban-
ity cast a glow of intimacy over the assembly.
He oi)ened his court by stating that in the death
of Vance Sterling the city had lost one of its
chief ornaments and hopes. In the case of a citi-
zen of such importance to the community, it was
fitting that no circumstance bearing on the trag-
edy should be overlooked, and therefore, though
the facts were tolerably clear, he had taken pains
to sift them, and hoped to set them forth so
clearly in the proceedings to follow that no legit-
imate curiosity on the part of the public should
be unsatisfied.

The first witness was Dr. Bell. He stated that
there could be no doubt that Vance Sterling had
been shot by a pistol held in his own hand, and
that death had been instantaneous. This view
was supported by the testimony of the police.

Leverett Raymond was called and sworn, and
the languid interest of the spectators was

395

A WINGED VICTORY

whipped to keener attention. Leverett testified
that he had gone to New York with Vance Ster-
ling as the beginning of a longer excursion ; that
they had been detained there by the exigencies
of the play, over which Sterling had worked with
intense excitement He told of the performance
of the first nighty of Sterling's quarrel with Berg-
mann, and of their return to Chicago, upon which
Sterling had insisted, to the abandonment of the
trip to Mexico. He was ignorant that Sterling
had a pistol in his possession ; he could not say
how or when he had obtained it. Arrived at his
home. Sterling had stated, in the presence of his
wife, that he was going away because of his fail-
ure. The witness believed that this failure was
the reason for his act ; and that he had made up
his mind to kill himself before leaving New
York.

Leverett was dismissed, and the spectators
breathed more easily and fanned themselves.

" Call Mrs. Sterling," said the coroner.

Dora went forward to be sworn. Her face was
very pale in its setting of black, very girlish and
gentle. She looked at the coroner almost with
a start of recognition. For the moment he was
the judge who was to decide whether Peter was
to blame or not for his accident. She must make
him see that Peter was not a feeble-minded little
boy.

" What is your name? " asked the coroner.

" Dora Glenn," she answered.

Then there was some confusion, and other
questions, and a mist cleared away from her

396

A WINGED VICTORY

mind. She knew that she was Dora Sterling, tes-
tifying to the circumstances surrounding her hus-
band's suicide.

The questions were on matters of fact, directed
to the corroboration of Leverett's testimony,
which the coroner read and which she steadily
confirmed. At last the coroner took off his spec-
tacles and pushed away his pai)ers.

" You agree, then, with the preceding witness
that the failure of the play temporarily unbal-
anced your husband, and was the cause of his
act?" he asked.

Dora looked quickly toward Leverett. She had
heard his testimony imperfectly. Was that what
he had said? But then he did not know Vance.
It was not mere cowardice in the face of failure
that had moved him. Her words, at least, should
do her husband no wrong.

" No," she replied in a low voice, " I do not
think so."

The coroner hesitated, then added kindly:

" Never mind the question in reference to your
husband's mental state. You could hardly be in
a position to judge of that. You heard him say
that his failure gave him courage to act? "

" Yes, — ^but that was not the reason."

Dora's voice was so low that it could not be
heard outside of the little space in the centre,
where the jury sat. There was a gentle stirring
through the room, and a murmur of curiosity.
The coroner polished his glasses nervously. He
was used to handling his cases delicately.
Nothing crude or scandalous ever was permitted

397

A WINGED VICTORY

to sully the records of his court. While he was
phrasing his next question, a juror, who had al-
ready been unduly inquisitiye^ intervened*

^^ What, in your opinion, was an additional or
contributing cause?" he asked, in a strident,
business-like voice.

Dora looked toward this new persecutor and
tried to speak, but no words came. Her mouth
was parched.

" I cannot say," she whispered, at last

" We will excuse you, Mrs. Sterling," said the
coroner, quickly. " Thank you."

" No," she said. " Not yet I shall be able to
speak in a moment — My husband shot himself
because he thought that I did not love him — ^that
I loved someone else. He died to give me my
freedom, because he thought he had wronged me
by his failure. He did not know — everything.
That was my fault If he had known he would
not — oh, he would not have done it But he
thought it was right— generous. Life was hard
for him, and death was always near. And he
had courage. It was very splendid of him. He
was not insane : he was a poet."

Her voice at the last was firm and clear. She
was proud of Vance, glad to be his witness and
give him the glory of his deed. She went down
to her place unconscious of all about her, with
something of that stateliness that Leverett had
seen in her before.

The tense stillness of the court-room was
broken by the coroner^s voice. He began to sum
up the case, laying special emphasis on the fact

398

A WINGED VICTORY

that evidence was complete that Vance's own
hand had fired the fatal shot. Dora did not wait.
When she found Nicholas Melledge at her side,
she begged him to take her away.

As they stood in the fog-darkened, drizzling
street, after the close, gas-lighted room, Dora
drew a long breath of relief. The ordeal was
over: she could go home and be quiet. She
looked about for Linda, but Nicholas explained
that she had waited to hear the verdict

" Of course, she expects that you will come
to us," he said.

" No," she answered. " I shall go back to our
home for this last night. I would rather, Nicho-
las. You must let me."

When he would have called a carriage she said
that she would like to walk. He put up his
umbrella, and they went on together. He was
very grave, and Dora did not speak. They trod
off the blocks and squares with measured pace,
in silence. As soon as they reached the apart-
ment, Nicholas went to the telephone. He came
back to Dora, his brow somewhat lightened.

" They have finished," he said. " The jury was
out only a minute or two. They said it was sui-
cide while temporarily insane."

"But that is not right. They couldn't say
that truly."

Dora had risen, and was looking at him with
wide eyes, the colour rising in her cheeks.

" Didn't I make it clear? I tried to let them
see how it was without saying too much."

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A WINGED VICTORY

Nicholas took her hands and made her sit
down.

" We should have warned you to say nothing,
Dora. It's a bad day for us all. We ought to
be thankful to the coroner that it's no worse.
Linda will be here in a moment," he added.
" She is driving. She will talk to you about it.
I can't''

He went back to the telephone, and Dora, feel-
ing utterly helpless, sat waiting, wondering.
There was nothing left for her to do but wait
— nothing for months but wait, and wonder, and
fear.

By and by Linda came. She had had a few
words with Nicholas.

" You can't stay here," was her first exclama-
tion.

" Yes, I shall, Linda. This was our home. I
shall stay with him here, to the last Then I
shall go to Glenwood."

" But, Dora, you can't live alone, nor even stay
here alone a night. It — it isn't decent, — espe-
cially with all the gossip flying about thait you
have given wings to."

" Don't speak of that now, Linda," said Nicho-
las. " Dora has enough to bear."

" She doesn't know what she has to bear yet —
not what it means to all of us. Why, in heaven's
name, couldn't you let well enough alone? What
earthly need of dragging in that scandal about
Raymond? You might have kept sacred the in-
quest over your husband's body."

"I thought that I should tell the truth for

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A WINGED VICTORY

his sake/' said' Dora. " Even if I couldn't do
any good, it was right to tell it."

" Any good ! You have done irreparable harm
to all of us. And to Raymond more than all.
What figure does he cut before the world — and
Vance, too? A husband who shoots himself to
make way for a lover; a lover who stands by,
ready to profit by the act; a wife who boasts
of it in open court. People would laugh, if it
were not all so ghastly."

Dora leaned back in her chair. The scent of
flowers in the room was overpowering. It
dimmed her sight and her hearing, but she knew
what Linda was saying. She was spoiling the
splendour of Vance's supreme moment, of his
glorious, tragic atonement. And Linda was the
world. But Dora roused herself to reply. She
would fight for that moment, for the beauty and
holiness of it, as for her faith in life.

"I only spoke the truth for Vance that he
could not speak for himself," she cried, passion-
ately. "What he did was beautiful and gener-
ous, though it was so terribly wrong."

" Wrong ! " exclaimed Linda. " I should say
so. Why didn't he shoot Raymond? There'd
have been some sense in that. And Raymond
himself wishes he had, you can be sure."

" No," said Dora. " He wouldn't wish that
He saw Vance in that moment — ^and he and I
shall never forget it. But I have wronged him,
though God knows I didn't mean to. I shall beg
his pardon."

" Beg his pardon ! You will not see him. Do

401

A .WINGED VICTORY

jon think he will return to the woman who has
dragged his name in the mud? "

"He will come to me,^ said Dora, quietly.
"I shall see him once more, and tell him how
sorry I am for all the evil, when I meant only
good. He knows that I meant it so."

^'You shall not see him. Even if he comes,
you must not. You will not let him spoil his life
altogether for you? And your own life — ^how do
you mean to get through that, I wonder, with
people talking of modem witchcraft, and hyp-
notic suggestion ^"

" Linda ! " shouted Nicholas, " it is outrageous
of you to repeat such malicious slander."

Dora was stricken dumb. It was easy to reply
that her life mattered nothing, but the life that
was wrapped up in hers, — she could not say that
that was nothing. The whole monstrous con-
struction of lies that the world sent against her
weakness and unwisdom did not terrify her. Life
was stronger than lies; but what if lies could
strangle life at its source, or blast it and blacken
it before it was bom? Her courage wavered and
faltered. They had dimmed the glory of the
past; and they would tarnish and stain the
glory of the future. No: she would fight for
both, for the past and the future — for her faith
in life. But not now. She was too weak. She
rose and went steadily to Linda.

"You must leave me, Linda," she said. "I
cannot bear it. No. I must bear it alone.
Please go."

402

A WINGED VICTORY

They buried Vance the next day. Many peo-
ple with curious, unfriendly faces crowded into
the house, and those who could not enter
thronged the street before the door. Through the
service there was a continual murmur from with-
out which drowned at times the voice of the
clergyman.

At the grave, in a strip of consecrated prairie,
Dora listened to the words of the Preacher.

"In the morning sow thy seed, and in the
evening withhold not thy hand, for thou know-
est not whether shall prosi)er either this or that,
OP whether they both shall be alike good.

" Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing
it is for the eyes to behold the sun.''

The field stretched endlessly about them,
brown and desolate, scarred by many tombs. The
lake moaned grievously below. There was no
comfort for her in the words. They seemed like
thin echoes in the silence of a starless night,
where she went forward in terror, and alone.

403

GHAPTEB IX

DOBA rfemained at her home for a few days,
and on one of them Leverett came.

When they met they looked at each other,
both pitiful. Leverett spoke first.

" I don't know whether you meant that I was
to come now, or later, or ever, — ^but I dared not
write to ask."

"I knew that you would come," said Dora,
"and I am glad, for I wanted to tell you how
sorry I am for all the harm that may have come
to you from helping me."

Leverett made a quick gesture of dissent.

"As I said once before, I have had nothing
but good from you, and I was bom to help you,
Dora. I came because I had this to say, that now
in some way — I don't know how to phrase it —
you are mine. Out of all this horror, so much
is clear. Whatever happens, you are first in
my life. We cannot be utterly divided. Vance
knew that."

He spoke in the midst of short, hard breath-
ing. Dora was calmer.

" But just because he knew it, and I had to
confess it, it is impossible, Leverett. That put
the world between us."

Leverett interrupted her.

"If you mean that the world is between us
because you told the truth about what Vance

404

A WINGED VICTORY

did, we can be honest and brave, as you were
then, and cleave it apart, can't we? "

" But there is something else," Dora went on,
^'something that Vance did not know. I did
not write him that he would have a son. I
waited to tell him — Oh God ! how I was cowardly
and foolish.''

Leverett bowed his head.

" Then Vance did not know. I was afraid —

I hoped " After a long while he looked up

again. " What are you going to do, Dora? "

" I am going to stay at Glenwood for the
present. The land has been sold, but the house
is mine, and there is some money — enough to
last until my baby is born. After that I am
going away — ^to New York, perhaps, to nurse,
to study. I shall have to give him up for a
while, my baby ; but I shall take him again, and
he shall grow up to bear his father's name, to
fulfil his father's life."

" I would help him to do that, Dora," ex-
claimed Leverett, eagerly.

" You can't, Leverett Don't you see that for
his sake, and Vance^s, and your own, you can-
not? The world is against us^ and we must let
it have its way."

" No, Dora," he answered. " If it is at all a
question of the world, I say no. We have a
chance to defy it, to rise above it — to trust life.
Don't let us put it away from us, forever."

Dora shook her head.

*^You shall not speak of it, Leverett It is
impossible. It would ruin you. It would stain

405

A WINGED VICTORY

the future. You have come to say good-bye to
me — only for that"

Bhe held out her hand^ but Leverett moved
aside.

^^ A moment) Dora. It may be that^ after all
that has been, you cannot bear the sight of me.
Well, you will not refuse to let me stand far off,
and help you as I may — and the child. To reject
me altogether — ^that would be a sorrow to me
beyond anything."

His voice broke a little, and Dora, realising
the despair in her eyes, covered them with her
hands. She loved him — she loved him. Her
heart cried out the words so that it seemed to
her like a confession. But because she loved
she would, for this once, be wise. Her love should
do no wrong, no dishonour.

^^ There is only one thing between us," Lev-
erett continued, " the memory of Vance. And
that cannot utterly separate us. See, he gave
me this."

He held out a sheet of paper, much worn and
blotted and stained. She looked at it uncom-
prehendingly. It was her writing. She read
the lines :

••

One friend in that path shall be
To secure my step from wrong;
One to count night day for me.
Patient through the watches long*
Serving most with none to see."

" My letter to you,'' she said, in a tremulous^
frightened voice. " I wrote it the morning after

406

A WINGED VICTORY

I had seen you, when Vance came home ill. I
did not mean to send it I forgot it. He must
have seen it, read if

" Vance left it for me. It was in his pocket,
in an envelope addressed to me, and they let me
have it. His leaving it for me was a part of what
he did, and so I had to show it to you. And it
was once your thought of me; now it is his
command to me. And I shall obey it. You
send me away, and I go. You may call me, and
I will come. You shall never see me again, if
you wish it so, but I shall wait, always."

Dora covered her face again. The letter
brought back with blinding vividness the mo-
ment when death and love had met before her.
Vance had made his sacrifice perfect. There
was nothing for them but to share its complete-
ness. The memory of it, as Leverett had said,
was really the only thing between them, and that
must ever be a sundering bond. Leverett seemed
to realise it. He stood quietly at her side until
she looked up again, tearfully. Then his eyes
met hers for a second, and he went away.

The next day Dora went to Glenwood. Linda
and Nichol^as renewed their opposition, but
vainly.

" I cannot live here," she said. " It would be
my death. Maggie is at work in the village.
She will come back to me, and I shall be at peace
there. You must let me go."

On the prairie spring was coming up from
the south, tender and loving as a child — undis-

407

A WINGED VICTORY

couragedy indomitable as life. Erery morning
Dora went ont to hail its advance. One day the
clonds were high and it was very clear, the thin
smoke cnrling up into the pearl grey sky, a tall,
red brick chimney detaching itself like a high,
keen note of music from the accompanying mono-
tone. Another day the mist hung on the horizon
like a curtain, shading, through neutral tints,
thinner and thinner into the pure blue over-
head. In front of it all objects on the earth
sprang out into vivid actuality — the fresh
boards of a new house beyond the race-track, the
white skeleton of a wind-mill, the leafless trees,
the cattle on a far-away hill. Another was silver
grey — the world toned down into unison with
the placid, colourless lake. And still another
was pure gold, the sun, warm and rich, ennobling
the dry reeds of last year that fringed the edges
of the blue water. And Dora took to herself
every day, and cherished it, and remembered it.
She was growing strong again, and sure, and
clear-sighted. She waited, with wonder and
with hope.

In these days she thought much, and planned
for the life that was to spring from hers. Her
son — ^she thought of her baby always as a son
— would be strong and beautiful. She yearned
for the moment when he should lie at her side,
in her arms. Sometimes at night she awoke,
reaching out her hands in her dream-longing.
So much of his blessed babyhood she must miss,
utterly lose. It seemed cruel that for months
of this interval of respite she could only desire

408

A WINGED VICTORY

him, without the comfort of his presence, except
as dimly revealed in her own burdened, suffer-
ing body.

She had carefully calculated her resources.
Before the next spring she must be at work for
him, preparing herself to gain their bread. But
her success would have this blessed reward — the
return to her child. And she followed him, year
by year, at play in the room where she worked,
at school, at college, a man, fulfilling his own
life, and hers, and his father's, bearing his
father's name, serving the People, as Vance, at
his best, would have served them. Her son
should be great, a son of the Highest. His
name should be called Wonderful, Counsellor,
for he should save his people from their sins.
Truly should she be called blessed among women.

She had times of reaction and discouragement,
days when she could not bear the house with its
memories of the wreckage of the past— of
Peter's life, of her father's, of Vance's, when she
went out into the prairie, seeking help and find-
ing none — the prairie, endless and vague as the
future. Sometimes she thought of Leverett, and
her heart misgave her. There was another catas-
trophe, the ruin of friendship, and she was
powerless. She could not help — not by a word,
a sign. The world forbade — ^and it was Lever-
ett's world as well as hers. His was a sacrifice,
as vain, as futile as Vance's had been, and yet,
like Vance's, it was perfect. Each in his own
way, they had overcome the world, — ^but they
were men. She was a woman, and she had her

409

A WINGED VICTORY

son's life and name to gnard. Her son — and
always in that thought^ after hours of striving,
there was peace.

On the whole, in spite of her loneliness, it was
with relief and joy that Dora felt that she had
escaped from the world, that at Glenwood she
was safe from it. But with time she was forced
to consider whether she could carry out her
plan — w^hether she could remain with safety to
herself and her child in that lonely place, far
from human help except of the most primitive
sort. And then, to solve her doubt, came a let-
ter from Constance Dare. She was tired of the
musical grind of Munich; she was coming back
to America ; Dora might expect her at Glenwood
within a fortnight.

On a June afternoon Dora drove over to
Eggleston to meet her.

Constance had changed since the day when
she had first flashed into« Dora's presence, and
proclaimed that the strange world of college was
good. Her old, kindling manner was there ; but
her face was harder in outline and colder in
colouring; her eyes were tired. When Dora put
her arms about her in their first embrace she
exclaimed in astonishment:

" How thin you are, Connie ! ''

"Yes," laughed Constance, as Dora's hands
touched her shoulders, "they're really blades,
aren't they? Never mind, I shall get plum^ here
in Arcadia with you. The life over there is
pretty fierce. It's good for me to drop it for a
while."

410

A WINGED VICTORY

As they started Dora was silent, watching
the ungainly shadow east by the angular buggy
on the road beside them. Constance's last words
had stirred a vague suspicion in her mind. But
she would not give it breath now. After a mo-
ment she surrendered herself to the delight of
her friend's presence, the charm that renewed
mysteriously the first joy of her girlhood. Be-
fore Constance's rapid talk of her experience,
her philosophy, Dora found herself once more a
child in knowledge of the world, and mastery
of it, reduced to wondering exclamation. How
much Constance knew!

When they topped the last long ridge and saw
Qlenwood spread before them and the lake be-
yond, Constance interrupted her reminiscences.

" What a heavenly house ! "

" Do you think so? " asked Dora. " I always
thought of it as somehow pretentious and unreal.
But, of course, I love it"

" It's like Noah's ark after its voyage. They
must have brought the ark to the plain, you
know, and lived in it, and it sank a little into
the ground, and vines grew on it, and trees
shaded it, and it got weather-beaten."

Dora looked critically at her mansion. Truly,
the weather had healed its rawness. The ash
trees were tall now, and a vine had covered the
kitchen porch with gracious leafage.

" Well," she said, " I do hope you'll like it
enough to stay in it for a while. After you're
gone I don't know whether I shall be able to
live in it alone."

411

A WINGED VICTORY

^^ But, of course, I shall stay as long as you
need me. That's what I've come for."

Once more Dora suspected, — ^but they were
at the gate. She must see that Constance was
initiated as a guest

That evening, after tea, they were sitting in
the old dining-room, now the living-room, on
the cushions in front of the fire. " You haven't
told me about yourself yet, Connie," said Dora.
"What really took you to Germany? We all
thought that your music was just an excuse.
You never did anything with it in college but
a little vaudeville."

" Well, it is an excuse — ^an excuse for living ;
but I'm trying to make it a decent one. And
my voice has turned out better than I thought
it would. When my piano comes you'll see. Of
course, I've had no end of hard work, because
I hadn't had any regular training to speak of
before. But the worst of the grind is over now,
and when I go back I shall really begin to
sing."

" Then you are going back to Germany, Con-
stance? I fancied from your letter that you had
finished with it over there."

" Yes, I'm going back in the fall," said Con-
stance, a little wearily. "I'm going to make
my debut somewhere — Dessau, probably. I've
had no end of trouble about it, and I must put
it through."

" But, then, you interrupted your work just to
come over and stay with me ! "

" Why, of course I did. It's a very good thing

412

A WINGED VICTORY

for me to do, and I want to be with you and all
that, but still, I'm rather proud of myself."

Dora studied the thin flames that shot clear
of the smothering smoke. It was a smudgy June
fire.

"But, Constance, dear, do you know how
much I need you? You have heard about Vance
— ^but there is something else."

"Yes, I know everything, Dora. That's the
real reason I'm here. The baby constraineth
me. You don't ask me how I know? "

" No. I don't need to, Connie. But it's won-
derful of you to have come."

" Pshaw ! Did you think that you had a pat-
ent on female chivalry? I mean to sing Brunn-
hilde some day, and I might as well practise the
part a little in real life. I promise you, though,
that I won't seduce your Siegfried, — if you have
one."

" I should want him to marry just such a girl
as you, though," said Dora, seriously. "You
don't know how I hero-worshipped you in col-
lege."

" Of course I do. But I don't flatter myself
that I'm a fit companion for a young man. I
shall even decline the honorary office of god-
mother — ^unless it's a girl."

"Oh, Constance, I shouldn't have much cour-
age left if I thought that. A girl's life! It
would be mine over again, I'm sure."

" No, Dora. There couldn't be another person
like you, and not another life like yours."

"Yes, Constance. I think my life has been

413

A WINGED VICTORY

that of all women. It seems to me terribly typ-
ical. What has come to me comes to the others
—only secretly sometimes.*'

"Perhaps," said Constance, pondering. "To
all good women, you mean. • To all women, that
is, who play the game according to the rules that
are made for them. But the bad ones — ^well, they
have their tragedies, too. I could a tale un-
fold."

" I won't have you call yourself a bad woman,
Constance."

" No, dear, I only mean a woman who has tried
to play the game out of rules. The only women
who escape them are the artist women — ^those of
us who win our freedom by our eyes, or our
hands, or our voices. That is why I have tried to
live by my voice. But it seems written, ^ Thou
Shalt not live by song alone.' Oh, it is out-
rageous, Dora. I used to wish in college that we
had a world to ourselves, without men. I have
wished so a thousand times since."

" I should never wish that, Connie. Only if
we had a fair chance with them — ^if we were not
handicapped."

" Of course we must be that, since Nature gave
us bodies, not for ourselves, but for the race,"
said Constance, gloomily.

" I don't mean only that — I mean handicapped
spiritually. There is something that we totally
lack — Si possibility of perfect triumph, of splen-
dour. Vance had it. If it were not for my baby
I should envy him. To leave it all that way!
But no woman can do that It would be cow-

414

A WINGED VICTORY

ardly in a woman. She would be recreant,
faithless. There was a way once. The great
women of the Church, Saint Catherine, Saint
Clare, found it But we modem women can^t do
anything perfect If we conquer we conquer for
ourselves alone; and if we give ourselves we are
defeated. We are like birds meant to fly, but
with no wings — we must always run or hop
about the ground. You don't understand what
I mean, Constance. I have been so much alone
that I think of things without trying to say them
out clearly.''

They were silent together for a while, looking
at the flames, more and more submerged in
smoke.

"Do you remember Vance's poem?" Dora
began again. " ^ The Winged Victory,' — ^that he
did in college? You know he wrote it for me —
and he told me — on the happiest day of my life.
Ah, I was so proud of it, and I wanted to be that,
— ei Victory, with wings — ^to fly, to leave the
earth, to live in the air — ^but I couldn't. It was
the desperate thing about our life — ^that he
should have thought I could be that I could
not. I could only see his mistakes as mistakes
— never'beyond until too late."

"You have turned pessimist, Dora, and no
wonder. But you will see things differently.
I almost think you are fortunate, Dora. Yes,
when I compare you with other women — with me,
for instance — I think of you as a lucky girl."

"But why, Constance? You have been able
to live your life according to your view of it, and

415

A WINGED yiCTORT

yon will always have the world at yonr feet
You know that you have the habit of guccess."

^^Bnt what of it? Snppose I succeed at
Dessau, at Munich, at Berlin. Suppose I sing
Elsa, and Brunnhilde, and Isolde? Suppose I
become the mistress of some reigning prince, or
return to my native land to scalp thousands a
night olBF my millionaire countrymen, what then?
What is tiie end of it? But you have had your
experience — love, the like of which I shall never
know. Ton have your child. And you have
your youth. How old are you, Dora? Twenty-
four, I think. You have given yourself to the
struggle, and come out with all the gain, — safe, a
girl still, unspoiled. I have never given myself.
I have tried always to take the world from the
outside, and I have nothing left to work for
except the pleasure of the moment, and to
save my pride. I think you are the fortunate
woman."

The half sob in C!onstance's voice forbade Dora
to think this one of the subtleties of the com-
forter. She took the hand that Constance
reached out to her and pressed it between both
her own. It was new to find Constance thus at
her alms.

^^You make me feel almost rich, Constance,
when I was coming to think of myself as very
poor. You used to share your life with me —
do you remember? — at college. Now what I
have, you shall have. We'll go halves, Connie.'^

Constance smiled a little grimly.

" You can't, Dora. Try as you will, you gen-

416

A WINGED VICTORY-

erons child, you can't. What I had was external
things — Si little knowledge of the world and of
people, and interests in life, and in art. I could
share those as well as not. But what you have
belongs to you of yourself. You can't share it
with me, any more than you can give me your
child, — or Leverett Raymond's love."

Dora put out her hands in quick protest.

^^ You must not, Constance."

" But that is really what brings me here, Dora.
He wrote me in Munich that I should come to
take care of you. I am to write him about you.
It is only fair to tell you that"

" I knew it," said Dora.

" And I should like to know what it means to
a woman to be loved that way. Can't you tell
me, Dora?"

Dora shook her head, gazing with sad intent-
ness into the fire.

"Aren't you proud of it, Dora?" Constance
insisted. " It is the greatest thing that you have
brought with you out of the battle — a splendid
trophy."

" I'll try to tell you, Constance," said Dora
suddenly. "At first I was proud of it, but I
was unhappy about it, too. And then I wanted
it, just the warm, human, friendly part of it. I
kept it, Constance, when I ought not. And then
for a moment it seemed very pitiful. I thought
it was struck to death — it cried out in my heart
so sorrowfully. You must not talk to me of it,
Constance, not ever. Let me forget it — ^and I
try to pray that he may. Then I think I might

417

A WINGED VICTORY

dare to remember it, as if it had died like a lit-
tle child, in that sorrowful cry/*

She stood up.

" Go to bed, Constance. It is past twelve. I
am going out to walk, just near the house. I
must tire myself. I must sleep.''

418

CHAPTER X

THE summer drew steadily by. The full-bos-
omed earth put forth its sustaining com.
All the prairie was covered with the green,
blade-like leaves, turning silver in the wind and
sunlight, with here and there the more vivid
green of barley, or the yellow of oats. Dora and
Constance took long drives about the country,
starting early, resting for noonday at one of the
village inns, deserted at that season, returning
in the hushed, cool evening.

They talked as they had talked as girls, tak-
ing on themselves the mysteries of things, of
God, and Nature, and human life. Dora was
more than peaceful, almost happy. For days
she ceased to regret the summer that seemed to
stand still about them, ceased to yearn forward
toward the autumn of her hope. Then one after-
noon the light was subdued as by a thin veil ; the
leaves, still green, drooped wearily; the soft air
had a faint, far-off ring of frost, and the gold of
sunset was tarnished. Almost without visible
sign the autumn had come and the year was
dying.

That autumn there was a great harvest in the
corn-land. A killing frost threatened in Septem-
ber, and the whole countryside held its breath;
but the danger passed, and the ears, made hard
and firm by the cold, gathered golden fulness

419

A WINGED VICTORY

in the Indian Summer. The catting began, and
every farm was a hive. As the husking machines
moved from one bam to another, bebind them
men and women, like working bees, toiled until
they were broken with fatigue.

^^ I feel terribly useless in all this," said Con-
stance, " as if everybody were saying, * Why cum-
bereth she the ground? ' "

They were driving and had stopi>ed for a mo-
ment on the height of a long ridge, from which
they could see the smoke of a dozen harvesting
machines. It was December, and very bleak
and grey, with snow in the air. Men and beasts
were at work with the sense that the long sea-
son of good weather was over ; that what was not
garnered by nightfall was lost.

Dora did not reply, and Constance looked
around to see her calm, pure face set in lines of
new strength. The snow began to fall, and be-
fore they reached Glenwood the ground was
white. As they entered the house Dora said
briefly :

^^ Please telephone to Miss Macgregor, Connie,
and to Dr. Bell. It is time."

That evening as they sat together, alone, Dora
thought incessantly of the night when Peter had
got his hurt. The new sensation of bodily pain,
the preparations for mortal illness, the waiting,
the counting of the moments until help could
come, all carried her back to that time.

" I can't help thinking, Constance," she said,
^* that if I died ta-night so few people would care
—only you, and Leverett — and my baby, if he

420

A WINGED VICTORY

lives he will be sorry for his mother. He is to
be called after his father, Connie — if I shouldn't
— oh, why am I so depressed and cowardly?
Yet it is dreadful for babies to be born that way
— they have to be so rough, so cruel to them.
Sing to me, Connie. Sing of happiness, — love
songs. I want you to sing the most foolishly
happy things you can think of. Sing Strauss'
Morgen/'

Constance sang until Dora broke in again.

" I think Dr. Bell must be here soon? " she
asked.

^^ In less than an hour," said Constance, ^^ and
Miss Macgregor should be here now."

"If they shouldn't come, Connie, you must
promise not to lose your nerve, and to do just
what I tell you?"

" Trust me," said Constance, " but they'll be
in time. There's sound of wheels on the snow."

" It's Miss Macgregor," said Dora, listening
to the voices outside. " That's good. Now you
must go to sleep, Connie."

Rising out of the depths of unconsciousness,
through waves of darkness and dull pain, Dora
called for her child. There was a faint wailing
in her ears, and she knew that it lived.

"Where is he, my baby?" she asked of the
faces so far above her — Constance's nearest^ and
Dr. Bell's, and the nurse's.

They placed the little form beside her, and she
was content for a time with the warmth and the

■

nestling movements of the tiny hands and legs.
" But I can't see him," she said, looking up to

421

A WINGED VICTORY

the faces. . Why did they smile so? Then sud-
denly the mist cleared, and she saw the baby face
at her side. She looked at it^ doubtful and per-
plexed, — ^then once more at Constance, with
happy eyes.

^^ I think I am fated to be a god-mother after
all/' said Constance, still trying to smile.

" Yes, I know," said Dora, softly. " It is a
little girl."

"Another Dora Glenn," said Dr. Bell, cheer-
fully.

" No, a better one, Doctor. She will have my
life to do what I have failed in. I can teach her
so much ! She will grow up on my prairie, and
go to my college, but she will do everything more
wisely and truly. She will be a real Victory,
Constance, with wings."

"There! She is still a little excited by
the anesthetic," said the doctor. " Keep her
quiet."

" I can't be quiet, Doctor. I want to talk about
her. I am so happy. Dear little Dora. You will
be good to her, Constance? It's so hard to be a
girl."

" I know it is," said Constance, bravely. " But
we can talk about it to-morrow. Now be a good
mother, and go to sleep."

"Let her lie on my arm. Doctor. There, I'll
have to be quiet now. I will be a good mother.
I remember about mamma. You'll see, Con-
stance. Now sing to me. The last thing I re-
member was your singing. Sing some more
songs of happiness — love songs."

422

A WINGED VICTORY

But in the night Dora awoke with a sudden
sense of disappointment and loss. She could not
define it at first; then it became slowly clear to
her. The peculiar fulfilment that she had looked
for, that she had blindly believed in, had failed.
The dream of a perfect triumph through her son
had faded. It was her own life that she saw
perpetuated in that of the little girl beside
her — a life in which there was love and faith
and sorrow, but no splendour, not even that of
renunciation. It had seemed so important to her
that she should have a man-child that she had
not been able to doubt that it would be so. Now
that it was not^ now that this hope was also vain,
she felt chiefiy pity for the girl baby. It was as
if she, the mother, had betrayed that little life
into a world where fate yawned for it.

^' Poor little fatherless, almost motherless
one," she moaned.

She looked onward into the future. Even
when she could come back to her child it would
be to a solitary little being, cut oflE from the ful-
ness of life, with no brothers or sisters, no family,
only a mother. She fancied how she would make
up to little Dora what she must lack — ^how she
would play with her, and keep her always happy,
— ^always, until the world came between them,
and the child's own fate. But that would not
be for long years— and meanwhile they would
be happy.

After all, it was what she should have desired
at the first — ^that her child should be a girl. A
boy's life might be a great triumph, but it would

423

A WINGED VICTORY

be a great responsibility; she could help a girl
so much more. Her longing for a son had been
a part of her overstrained, romantic condition —
the exaltation that accompanied her first tragic
sense of motherhood. Now that the natural
order of things had supervened she felt all at
once sane and happy. She was glad that her
first emotion had been one of joy; that this re-
action of disappointment had come to her, and
had gone, when she was alone, by night. She
raised herself, leaned over the crib beside her,
and kissed the little face. She remembered that
in that room Leverett had kissed Peter, dying.
Ah, if he might come, as he had come that after-
noon, and lean for a moment in boyish father-
hood over the little Dora.

The next day Constance came in with a letter.

" It is from Leverett,^^ she said. " I told you
that I should telegraph him. And here is a note
for you."

She held out a folded sheet.

" You shall let me share a little in your hap-
piness," Dora read. " God bless you both." She
read it again, aloud. " It was lovely of Lever-
ett to write that, only that," she said, and tucked
the paper under her pillow.

" That is the only letter I shall have," she
added. ^^No one else will believe that little
Dora is bom to happiness."

^^But what shall I send him in answer?"
asked Constance.

" Leverett will not need an answer."

'' I shall send him one, nevertheless, and ren-

424

A WINGED VICTORY

der an account of my stewardship— also tell
him that I am going back to Munich some
time."

" Oh, Constance, don't say that — ^but I know
that you must I feel guilty at keeping you so
long from your work. You need not stay, dear
— not a day more. I can do perfectly well now.*'

"I shall stay for the christening," said Con-
stance. " You may be sure that I shall not for-
get my god-motherhood, and I want it made of-
ficial."

" We shall have the christening very soon then,
Constance. We might get Dr, MulleF to come
over Sunday afternoon."

"Not until you are quite strong," said Con-
stance, repentingly. " What is the nurse about
to let me go on exciting you this way? I shall
sing to you."

The christening, at Constance's insistence,
was put off through the winter.

" That will be my last excuse for staying, and
I don't want to go," she said. " I am not usually
afraid of life, but I feel that when we part we
shall all get lost in the wood of this world —
you, and little Dora, and I. Why don't you ask
Leverett to be her god-father, Dora? "

" He will know why I cannot," said Dora.
" Little Dora must do without a god-father."

" Dora," said Constance suddenly, " do you
remember the night I came, when we talked of
Leverett? Well, I didn't tell you then, but I do
now, that what you said was utterly false, out of

425

A WINGED VICTORY

your character. For a moment you seemed a
totally unreal person/'

" You know that we were not to talk of this,
Constance. It is altogether impossible — ^what
you mean. And I have told you my plans.''

"Absurd ones," said Constance, decisively.
" You are simply denying your whole life."

" It has to be so, Constance, — ^but who would
think to hear such things from you? Where
is your feminism?" urged Dora, trying to
smile.

" Nonsense. I've renounced it. The baby has
converted me. Henceforth I shall proclaim the
faith : ^ There is no God but life, and love is his
prophet.' "

"That faith will be for you and your god-
daughter, Constance, but not for me. I can't
tell you how it is, dear, but I have made such
mistakes, done so much harm, that I feel that I
shall never trust my heart again. I shall be wise
now, and prudent, and I think that one piece of
wisdom will be for baby and me to go on to New
York with you, so as to have you to take care of
us on the journey. We could not stay here much
longer, anyway."

The christening was arranged for the day be-
fore their departure. Dora spent the morning
going over the old house, collecting what things
she must take, and saying good-bye to it. She
felt that she was leaving it forever, and it was
like going on the sea. She was quite strong and
well now, but in the afternoon, as she stood with
her child before the old minister, she was sud-

426

A WINGED VICTORY

denly shaken, and turned so pale that Constance
put her arm around her.

" To everything there is a season, and a time
to every purpose under the heaven," he read.

Why should he have chosen that passage?
Had it become to him a kind of ritual that he
used in all affairs of life and death?

" A time to be born, and a time to die ; a time
to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is
planted.

^^ A time to kill, and a time to heal ; a time to
break down, and a time to build up.

" I have seen the travail, which God hath given
to the sons of men to be exercised in it.

"He hath made everything beautiful in His
time : also He hath set the world in their heart
so that no man can find out the words that God
maketh from the beginning to the end.

"I know that there is no good in them, but
for a man to rejoice, and do good in his life."

The words came back, forgotten yet familiar,
and with them came the feeling for her life as
a whole which they had aroused when she first
heard them. She saw the past and the future—
and she shut her eyes to hold back the tears-^-
all those so dear to her, who had been hers,
whose lives she was living in her own, whose
lives she denied if she denied her own — Lever-
ett^s, and her child's, Peter's, — and Vance's, also.
For he had died, and she had confessed it proudly,
for the sake of this which she refused, and by
refusing she brought the deed to naught He had
died that she and Leverett might have life more

427

A WINGED VICTORY

abundantly. Was it her part to crown his deed
with sterile sacrifice? Her heart spoke truly.
It was life that called them together; it was the
drama of living that had invented scruples to
keep them apart " Trust life, trust life,'^ her
heart was saying, as the great roll-call of man's
works and days went on.

When the old Levite closed the book and de-
manded: "Where are the god-parents?'' Dora
answered :

" He — ^the god-father — ^is not here,"

"Who will answer for him?"

" I will ! " said Dora.

She tried to fix her mind on the solemn words
which consecrated her daughter to a life of serv-
ice, but all the time her mind was occupied with
herself, and the crisis of her fate. The next day
she would be gone from her home — ^from the
prairie. Well, she was not afraid of her plan.
To show that she was not she would go forth
with Constance to-morrow and begin her new
life. No, she would take a day more to think it
all out. But this was paltering and shuffling^
when she was sure, sure. And since she was
sure, she must tell Leverett at once. She thought
of his note, unanswered, because "Leverett
would not need an answer." Perhaps he did not
She would best go with Constance, after all, and
leave the responsibility of changing her decision
to him. But she put away the thoughts of eva-
sion. Between her and Leverett there could be
nothing but utter frankness, naked truth.

In a moment it was over. The frightened

428

A WINGED VICTORY

baby was borne away in Maggie's arms, and
Constance was helping Dr. MuIIer equip himself
for his return drive. Dora called to her :

"Keep Dr. Muller a minute, Connie; I want
to give him a letter to mail."

Then she wrote:

" Dear Leverett : — ^You asked me for a share in
my happiness. I did not answer then, I think
because I realised somehow that I could not give
you a part of anything that was mine, my happi-
ness or my sorrow. But I can give it all. Per-
haps I am wrong, Leverett, and what we both
thought impossible a year ago is still and forever
so. If you are not sure, do not come, dear. I
shall not misunderstand. It will be better, far
better, — and I will go away with Constance.

" Always yours,

"DoBA Glenn Steeling.''

When Dr. Muller had gone Dora said : " Please
stay until Tuesday, Constance. I can't go to-
morrow — I can't tell you why."

They spent a long evening before the fire —
Constance sleepily protesting.

" But you used to be ashamed to go to bed,
Connie, before two or three," Dora rallied her.

" Yes, but your country air makes me sleepy.
Let me go, Dora."

" Not until you have sung my song once more
for me, the last time, Connie."

And Constance sang.

In the morning Dora's humour persisted. The

429

A WINGED VICTORY

day was the very frosting of winter — the snow
mantle stretching wide and dazzling under the
sunlight. But after noon Dora grew graver.
The excessive brightness of the day wearied her
at length. After luncheon she went up to her
room, to lie down, then to rise and stand for
long at the window looking out over the prairie,
moulded softly in many ridges toward Eggleston.
The sun sank lower. Violet shadows spread east-
ward from the hills to mitigate the intolerable
brightness of the day. " He will not come," she
said, out loud. But her heart laughed at her
speech.

Over the ridge that fronted Eggleston came
horse and rider, at a long canter, over the half-
broken road, the loose snow spreading out in fans
behind the flying hoofs. Of course, he had come.
In spite of the prohibition in her letter he must
come in any case, to give back the decision into
her hands. But again she laughed in her heart.

She would not wait. She threw on her cloak,
ran down the stairs and down the cleared path
that followed the driveway. She met him at the
gate. He rose in his stirrups and waved to her —
and she saw his face, worn, and lean, and bat-
tered, but his eyes were clear.

" Come up here out of the snow," he com-
manded.

Her slender hand was in his rough, gauntleted
one. She stepped up to his stirrup, and with
arm and foot he swung her in front of him. The
horse shied, and plunged in the drifts under his
insecure burden. Dora kept her eyes closed. In

430

A WINGED VICTORY

a moment they might be down — ^but she knew
that all her safety and happiness and glory in
life were in being held there upon that plunging
horse, by an arm that did not tremble, against a
heart that struck its warmth through the dogskin
jacket and fur cloak to her own.

In a moment Leverett had pulled the horse
back into the beaten track, and let him out
into his free canter. Dora lost herself for a
moment in the rhythm of the motion, the shield-
ing embrace of her lover's arm, the caress of his
face against her own. Then she opened her eyes.

" Where are we going, Leverett? "

" Nowhere— everywhere. I should like to ride
round the world with you, Dora. It's this way
that you belong to me most, just as I used to
think of us when I was a boy, climbing moun-
tains, or sailing out into the sea, or finding our
way through woods in winter, or riding together
forever over the world — ^flying above it. Isn't
it like flying, Dora? "

"Yes, it's like flying, but we must not — we
must stay below, for the sake of the others who
cannot fly. And we must go back for my baby."

Leverett wheeled his horse in a rapid circle.

"Surely," he said. "Think, I haven't seen
her yet. Is she like you, Dora? "

" Constance says that her eyes are."

" Then she has the best eyes in the world, the
kindest, the truest. And they shall always be
like yours as they are now, Dora — the happiest."

431 M

r;UKo;\JUl<^AJ^$^^^*55^^

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRAHY

REFERENCE DEPARTMENT

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